


Hallow'd Ground

by madame_faust



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, The Phantom of the Opera (TV 1990)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Blood and Violence, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 60,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27122752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/pseuds/madame_faust
Summary: There were three rules that the company of the Paris Opera abided by: Box Five is not to be sold. Strange howls and wails in the walls were to be ignored. And never, ever go below.Werewolf!Cherik story for POTO 13 Nights of Halloween. Title comes from Florence and the Machine's 'Howl.' Now with additional content! After Chapter 1 it turns progressively into more and more of a romcom, fair warning!
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Erik | Phantom of the Opera & Gerard Carriere
Comments: 219
Kudos: 94





	1. The Moon that Breaks the Night

There was a beast that lived in the cellars of the Opera House.

The staff knew it and if they forgot the howls and roars which echoed up through the stones warned them off going places where no human dared trespass. They all felt safe enough; Monsieur Carriere was their champion, a classical hero in well-pressed evening clothes and a trim mustache. He alone would sometimes be seen venturing into the dark passages or coming through a doorway, bolted and locked from the outside. He managed the Opera, oversaw everything with a steely-eyed precision which seemed to become him and an artistic sympathy which did not.

Though M. Carriere’s stolid demeanor seemed not to suggest that extreme musical sensitivity, bordering on genius, that his artistic management suggested, no one who knew him thought much on it. He was a man with secrets and so be it, if it kept the performers, management staff, and concierge safe.

Some of the older employees indulged in odd little rituals. They spoke of having left gifts, years ago, in Box Five, to appease the thing that lurked beneath the floors. Pretty stones and bits of colored glass found at the banks of the Seine, a rag-picker’s treasure trove. Jean-Claude alone was the only faithful congregant anymore. He left pastries when he arrived in the morning, pine rosin and writing paper, even chocolates on the opening night of a new production.

If anyone dared laugh at these superstitions, they were hushed quickly. They would learn. Box Five was to be cleaned regularly, but never sold. If you heard a cry or an inhuman wail, ignore it. And never, _ever_ go below.

Until the day the new manager came and M. Carriere was dismissed. This man did not believe in monsters, or ghosts, or wild stories. His wife - la Carlotta - plucked Jean-Claude’s chocolates from their place in the box and ate them herself. The bolts were cut and the keys lost as her costume-man was sent below to take stock of what secrets the Opera House held.

For some weeks, the company held its breath, certain disaster was on the horizon - but no. Joseph Buquet would arm himself with his fountain pen and sheave of paper dutifully in the morning and come back into the light to take his luncheon. Then back down he would go and return again, the shoulders of his jacket dusty, but otherwise no worse for wear.

Perhaps, they began to venture, it really was all a rumor. A charade. The delusions of a lonely old man and the addle-minded theatrical types he had in his employ.

Only the newest addition to the Opera did not believe it; a mousy girl who kept to herself and toiled as a laundress for the costume shop, living out a cold shadow of a broken promise. At night, when she tried to sleep in her forbidden room, she heard the wails and the cries, but to her ears they did not sound like danger. They sounded like sorrow.

She would have told anyone if they had asked. She would have told Joseph Buquet. But no one did ask and no one noticed her and one October night, when the moon rose full and fat and bright enough to light the streets without the aid of gas or electricity, Joseph Buquet went below again. But this time he did not come back up. 

The scene of the slaughter was stomach-churning: the walls splattered with blood, the ground sticky with viscera. The stench was incredible: a mortuary and a slaughterhouse all in one. 

Nothing remained of the man - for it had been a man, once - but for some fragments of bone, a shattered monocle and a few hanks of hair. The legend of the monster in the cellars was likely renewed; a great roaring, not likely heard since lions were set upon Christian martyrs in pagan Rome echoed through the floors, only barely drowned out by the orchestra and music that played on above, over the carnage.

The stagehands heard it though, and that was enough. It was not long before word reached the old manager. Despite his involuntary retirement, he kept an ear open for goings-on at the Opera and nightly prayed that it should not come to this. When it was confirmed that Joseph Buquet had not returned home following the performance, he knew that all his prayers were in vain. 

The cellars were quiet now. The howls and sounds of tearing clothes and rending flesh were gone and the stones silent, but for the very human retching of a man, crouched on the shores of the underground lake.

It was an imposing figure to be sure; or it would have been but for the shivering and trembling of his naked limbs. Trembling which was due not from the chill in the air, but the grief and horror that haunted him since he awoke upon the stones, skin bare but for the remains of the carnage around, teeth and tongue thickly coated with blood that was not his own. 

The man - not a _man_ really, but a _creature_ , called Erik - wiped the last of the gore for his mouth with the back of his hand. He coughed once; a pearl shirt button was spat into his palm and he threw it away from himself like it burned. 

“Oh, God,” Erik gasped into the darkness and the silence. “Oh, _God_.”

There was no answer from the Divine, neither of comfort nor a condemning strike of lightning. Just silence and the bloody scene that he awakened in before him. With no answered prayers, no heavenly guidance at his disposal, he did the only thing that it seemed he could do: he tidied up. Scrubbing the blood from the floor with a speed and energy that was superhuman, but, as a nasty little voice hissed in his head, he was _not_ human, was he? And he had the benefit of a large meal enjoyed the evening previous to spur him on in his task.

The knowledge of his monstrousness, writ baldly on the walls in blood, confirmed by his own racing mind made him feel ill and dizzy again. Erik almost paused, but the tell-tale sound of a stone doorway being spun back on hidden gears made him redouble his pace even before he scented Gerard plodding down the steps. He must know. But he mustn't see.

When Gerard arrived Erik was dressed, masked, and entirely presentable but for the sweat he could feel pooling in his lower back. He folded his hands to disguise their trembling. He could still smell the blood, but it seemed Gerard could not. In fact, the way the gentleman paused, a wild hope fluttered to life in Erik’s breast. Perhaps he didn’t know. He need _never_ know - 

“Is he dead?” Gerard asked, meeting Erik’s eyes with grim certainty. 

Erik swallowed thickly; the taste of the blood was gone and all that was left was sour misery and anxiety. He thought he might be sick again so he lowered his gaze and nodded. “Yes. Yes he’s dead.”

“Why in God’s name did you not chain yourself up?” Gerard demanded, hand half-raised in a gesture that Erik took to mean violence. He shrank back before the blow could be attempted. Ridiculous, really. Even in this state there was little Gerard could do to harm him. Unless he chose to employ the revolver he always carried with him when he ventured below. Not to threaten; he never mentioned it and it was likely Erik would never have known about its existence if the bitter tang of silver did not seize at the back of its throat, emanating from the six little bullets in their chambers. 

But Gerard’s hands only found their way into his own hands to tug and wind through the salt and pepper stands fretfully. 

“Why, Erik?” he demanded. “I can’t protect… _you_ might have prevented this!”

Behind his starched shirt cuffs Erik’s wrists were thickly scarred with the evidence of his past obedience. But he had stopped fastening the silver manacles some time ago, for fear that the scarring would impede his playing upon the piano or violin. He had so few pleasures, music chief among them. If he could not play, he feared he would truly then be only a slavering beast, fit for nothing but rotting away in the dark.

Yet he had killed. If he was a man, he would have been hanged. Slavering dogs and wolves at the farm gates were shot. His gaze flickered up from the stone floor to look at Gerard’s hip where his revolver lay, but he made no move toward it. Did he mean to leave it behind for Erik to take care of the matter itself?

“I…” Erik swallowed the words before they came. He could neither justify nor explain himself. Were his fleeting moments of happiness worth more than a man’s life? Surely not. “I…will. Next…next time. I swear, it Gerard, I am so - ”

“Erik.“ 

Tears burned at his eyes, but he did not allow himself the luxury; monsters did not weep over their victims, surely. And yet Gerard had him utterly undone. Rare it was when he spoke to him tenderly. Not since he was a child and he had to calm him, hysterical in the aftermath of nights he did not remember, covered in self-inflicted bite and claw marks that were already half-healed when morning came. Then Erik wept, asked Gerard what had happened, why did he hurt so, and begged him to make it stop.

Gerard could not make it stop. He could only hush his cries, dry his tears, bandage his wounds, and put him to bed. All throughout he spoke to him soothingly, in a voice that was grieved, but soft. Tender. Almost loving.

But that was when Erik was only a small monster. It had been ten years at least since it had been safe for Gerard to pass the night anywhere near him. In that time he learned to quiet himself on waking. To sit alone, back against a wall, eyes closed until the rapid tattoo of his heart calmed and he breathed out the panic of waking alone, and half carved to bits, his memories nothing but a blank void when he tried to recall how he’d come to be in such a state. He bandaged his own wounds until the marks faded and were gone by day’s end. 

When he woke this morning, he had suffered no injury. He was hale and whole. And yet now, when he was least deserving of it, Gerard thought he was in need of comfort.

Such comfort as he could offer in safety. Gerard did not approach. He kept the stairs to the world above at his back and his revolver at his belt. Erik had not felt human hands upon him in years. Being spoken to kindly nearly undid him. Erik folded his arms across his chest; a shallow approximation of an embrace, as close as he would ever come to receiving one. 

Gerard sighed. He rubbed his eyes and looked about himself, seeming to see all the evidence of Erik’s crime that he could not sense. Gerard squared his shoulders. The set of his mouth was resolute. The next words he spoke were devoid of tenderness, but heavy-laden with a promise: He would take care of this. _Leave it to me._

Then he was gone. Erik listened for the sound of his retreating footsteps. The click of the hidden door latching closed again. And then there was only the sound of the blood pounding in his ears and the water gently lapping at the underground shores.

If he strained his memory back, he knew it had not always been like this. There had been daylight, once. Fresh air. A woman he called, ‘Maman,’ and a man who once allowed himself to be called, ‘Papa.’ They had gone for a walk. The night was warm and the moon was so full and shining that it was like morning. They were heedless of the danger that awaited them, in the bright, bright nighttime. 

The woman had not survived. The boy’s face had been maimed almost beyond recognition. And the man ran from both of them. He came back for the boy. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t have. What kind of life was it, a mutilated monster, who once might have lied to himself in ascribing his life meaning through his contributions to the Opera House. But even that was taken from him.

He could not look at his instruments without thinking of that man with the pearl shirt buttons. He should have chained himself that night, regardless of the cost to himself. What was music compared to a whole life?

Even the sounds that echoed down from above gave him no solace, no joy; the manager’s wife’s shrill, thin voice brought pain where once the company in performance brought pleasure. He began to wish Gerard had left the revolver after all. As long as he lived, he lived in hell; but was that not fitting? Was that not where killers were bound?

Surely yes, if he had an immortal soul. That was a matter of some debate. If he did, then he would suffer in the hereafter for all eternity. If he did not, it was fitting, that this be his hell. He needed some way to atone for his sins.

Then, one night, when he could feel the pull of the moon in his bones, as he made to lash himself to the wall, he heard it. A lovely, lonely sound deep in the night. The Opera was dark. The building abandoned. He must be mad. Mad as well as evil. Yet he closed his eyes and listened, forgetting the manacles as his mind desperately sought the only beauty, the only good thing it had encountered in the turn of a month.

He listened even as aching became pain. The last thing he heard before darkness consumed his mind utterly was the frail, pure melody, still singing on. this time, rather than feeling like he was drowning in a dark abyss, the transformation was more akin to falling asleep.

And when he awakened, there was no blood. Neither his own nor anyone else’s. The next night, when he heard the song again, he ventured above. The Opera smelled differently; the cloying perfume the manager’s wife favored coating everything, nearly making him gag though she had been gone from the place for hours. But he followed the sound of the beautiful voice until he located its source. A girl he had never seen before, alone upon the stage. 

Her dress was threadbare and worn, and she wore no perfume save the scent of her warm skin, her clean sweat. She lifted shining eyes toward the house when her song finished and she curtseyed so clumsily and charmingly that Erik’s breath caught. She could not possibly see him in the shadows of the box. But he could swear that when she bobbed before her imaginary audience that she looked right at him.

That same selfishness that led to the murder of Joseph Buquet reared within him again. He was a monster. One who ought to be put down like a rapid beast, but while he lived ought to live in hell. Yet an angel had sung and roused him from his underworld. Apt, perhaps, that a creature of darkness would sully and devour a creature of light. It was practically cliche. All the best-loved operas followed that same story.

But he was so lonely. Down to his bones. A soul-deep ache (if he could be said to have a soul, of course) that needled him endlessly. Discontent with Gerard’s infrequent visits and rarer tender tones, his ever-present silver bullets. 

He couldn’t help himself. He tried to remain apart. Watching, only. But it would not do. On a night when only the stars winked down upon Paris and Erik was convinced that they were utterly alone, he spoke to her. Pleaded with her.

"Please, don’t be afraid.”


	2. What Big Eyes You Have

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And just like that, it's a series! Christine's POV on Erik is going to be, like, 85% less angsty than his POV on himself.

It was not the rumors of a ghost which troubled Christine. Indeed, as she shivered in her secret hideaway at the back of a neglected properties room, she was comforted by the idea that she was not all alone in the building. Indeed, she was quite contented with her ghost (as she started to consider it). Sometimes she swore she heard distant music, lulling her to sleep. On others, wrenching screams and sobs that accompanied her own tears. It seemed she'd found a kindred spirit at the Opera. Even if it was not one of flesh and blood.

As she sang to comfort and entertain herself in the evenings, she could sometimes swear she wasn't alone. And so long as it was merely an observant spectre, she was perfectly placid about the matter; even comforted. She had been raised a half-wild thing with her father upon the highways and byways of Europe. She heard legends and lore of all manner of creatures and she knew she had nothing to fear from ghosts. Spirits could not harm anyone. Only living people could do that.

Therefore, when a man's voice sounded from the darkness of the theatre, at a time when she thought she was quite alone, Christine's heart leapt into her throat. And despite his plea for her not to be afraid, she was, naturally. She all alone. None but Jean-Claude knew she was living in the theatre and...should something happen to her, no one would miss her. Christine was not so self-deluded and naive that she could not admit that. The Monsieur Carriere who was meant to be her employer was dismissed prior to her arrival. And Philippe had neither written nor visited the Opera since their parting. 

Her alarm only increased when she saw the man who spoke to her. The white mask, which covered any identifying features, paled in comparison to the sheer size of the man. Though he was stood below her in the orchestra pit, she saw at once that he was frightfully tall and appeared to be immensely strong. There was nothing about her with which she might defend herself and her knees went weak with fright. Her only hope was to run and hope he could not catch her, but even that seemed doomed to fail. 

"No, wait, please!"

On instinct, Christine had stumbled backward, but the man came no closer. He just held out one gloved hand in evident supplication. Her heart beat rapidly and her hands drew up against her chest in a vain attempt to protect herself. Jean-Claude warned her not to wander. The rest of the company spoke of spectres and tormented souls in the catacombs. She knew she had nothing to fear on that front, but neglected to recall the danger of men. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

"Mademoiselle, I beg your pardon." He still hadn't moved closer. His manners and speech were those of a gentleman. But if he was a gentleman, why would he be lurking around the Opera so late at night? Why would he wear a mask? "I swear, I mean you no harm. I...merely wished to express my admiration...I heard you singing."

And on he spoke. Apologized for intruding upon her privacy. But declared that he could not help himself. He was a musician. He said her voice was beautiful. No, not only beautiful. _Astonishing._ And with a little training - which he offered to provide, should she be amenable to such an arrangement - it could reach extraordinary heights.

Her heart had stopped it's dreadful pitter-patter. Halfway through his apology for his intrusion she was able to concentrate on what he was saying. How strange to consider, but this was the first person who heard her sing since that afternoon Philippe recommended her to the Opera in the first place.

And, a small, keen part of her was able to detect a note of painfully earnest sincerity. He a wonderful speaking voice. Deep and resonant - lovely to hear when she wasn't in paroxysms of fear - and, most importantly, he had not drawn closer to her since he bade her not to be afraid.

She _was_ afraid; she could not help it. She was aware of her woeful vulnerability; as helpless as a rabbit might be before a bear. Any other man approaching her in such a way, peeling himself out of the darkness like a shade, might have provoked such a reaction, but _this_ man...the strangeness of the mask, his hulking size, even with his soft voice and gentlemanlike manner, there was something that spoke to a deep, unconscious part of her mind: _There is danger here._

And yet he withdrew. 

"You don't have to give me an answer now," he said. "Nor even tomorrow. It would be...a very great...well. The choice is yours, mademoiselle. I'll take my leave of you."

He gave a short bow, the formality of which shook her out of her fearful silence. 

"Monsieur!"

He paused on the point of leaving, lifting his chin to look up at her. Warily, she came closer. In the dim light of the theatre she could see his eyes; oddest, most lovely green, flecked here and there with brown so light it might have been gold. 

And in those eyes she saw her own fear reflected back at her. As terrified as she was of this man, he hardly seemed less so of her.

"What...what is your name, monsieur?" she asked. Names were important things; once known the possessor had all the power in the world at their disposal. 

At first it seemed he would not give it to her. His large green eyes looked away from her and down at the music stands which crowded around him like a see of Lilliputians beholding Gulliver. But then he looked back at her and said, "Erik. Only that."

Erik. Ever-ruler. Yet he gave her his name. And he did not ask that she give him hers. 

"Good-night, mademoiselle," he bowed again. Then disappeared back into the shadows from which he emerged.

"Good-night," she spoke into the darkness. "Erik."


	3. The Creature in the Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Choo-choo! Welcome to the angst train! We're back to Erik's somewhat scattered POV, but don't worry, the next chapter is Christine's and she has a much more amusing perspective on this crazy situation.

It might be an overstatement to call his encounter with the songstress from the costume department a disaster. After all, she hadn't run. But it had been a near thing. 

The girl had been terrified. He heard her heartbeat, tasted the sharp, metallic scent of fear pouring out of her and it made his heart clench painfully in his chest. For his part, Erik was as discomfited by the encounter as she had been. For a long while, as soon as he'd descended past the third cellar he sank down onto the staircase and sat with his head in his hands.

Obsessively, his mind played over every second of their interaction, every time picking out all the things he'd said that were wrong, or strange...all the while envisioning her pale face and wide eyes. It was the closest he'd been to a human being who wasn't Gerard in a year or more.

His utter dependence upon Gerard might have been embarrassing were he another kind of man, but his ventures into the outside world - limited though they were in childhood - had vanished to nil upon reaching maturity. His encounter with the girl, (he'd been so eager to run away and cease frightening her that he had not even learned her name), proved it. Even without his face obscured, his appearance inspired alarm. And not without cause. Men and women alike viewed him as a threat, men tended to respond with violence, women with cowering terror. 

Even Jean Claude, who had known him since his infancy, put distance between them on those occasions when they saw one another in the flesh. Gripping chairs or edging toward doorways, as though he might be the victim of sudden violence. 

It made him feel sick. He _despised_ frightening people. And he should have known better than to place himself before the girl who, as far as he could discern, had no one upon whom she could call as a protector or confident. She had been utterly at his mercy. Never mind that doing her harm never crossed his mind. Never mind that he'd deliberately placed himself far from her, in the pit where he would be below her, never mind that she was free to run, if his pleas did not convince her to stay. 

With a groan he rubbed at his eyes behind the mask. Days ago, when he became convinced he _must_ speak to her or go mad, he dismissed the thought that he might speak to her only. As a voice in the walls. Truly embody the spirit of the opera ghost. But he thought, no, that would surely frighten her, even more than appearing as a man would. That was clearly a mistake. His entire existence was a mistake.

And yet he lived. That was Gerard's doing. Even beyond the crates of provisions he delivered to him with regularity, he attempted to give him some purpose. When Erik was younger, there had been some vague musings that perhaps he might someday attain a position in the pit. But it was not to be. He was too frightening, too freakish. And so Gerard sought his advice. From repertoire, to the selection of musicians, cast, and properties. 

Gerard was the first to admit that although he loved the theatre, his talents lay primarily in the organization of employees, keeping the books orderly, maintaining good relationships with the patrons. Not precisely tone-deaf, Gerard could recognize beauty and ability, but he had no finesse for arranging such things into creative masterpieces. Gerard organized the raw materials in terms of stagecraft and talent, then permitted Erik to mould them into something astonishing.

Uncredited, of course. Unseen, naturally. But Erik did not long for recognition or applause. He only wanted to be of use, to pour his own talents and energies into something that would bring some small happiness to the world. To share music, which in his opinion, was the highest expression of human feeling. 

It had given him not only purpose, but also reassurance that there was some humanity residing within the monstrous shell he occupied. And that outlet had been taken from him. Not the performances were targeted to show of the dubious abilities of the manager's wife. Artistic expression had given way to egocentrism. Erik had benefiting from nepotism, but he had taken neither applause nor credit. Madame Carlotta desired both. In spades.

A charlatan risen to prima donna while genuine vocal beauty languished in the Opera's laundry. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. And yet it seemed that was how matters were destined to remain. The girl had listened to him, but what of that? It might have merely been to appease him. Even if she did not flee the Opera, he ought to take hope from such a thing; it was obvious she had nowhere else to go.

Erik lifted his head from his hands and chuckled mirthlessly into the darkness. Nowhere else to go. Well. In that, at least, they were similar. 

Once returned to his underground abode, he divested himself of the evening clothes he only kept on hand for those rare occasions when he might permit himself to be glimpsed around the Opera. He'd made them himself and they would not, he knew, stand up to the scrutiny of a tailor. His everyday clothes were less fine, but sturdier. And only served to make him look more like a terrifying ruffian, come to do harm. 

He had _tried_ to make himself presentable for her. Had dusted off his finest attire, even attempted to cover the scarring on his face and neck with powder. What was underneath the mask did not bear thinking about. Even though she had not seen the worst of him she had seen enough, he was sure, to never wander about the Opera house at night again...though she had asked for his name. Had bidden him good-night, even. 

Pathetic, that he would cling to ordinary pleasantries so ardently, but he could not help himself. Over the last ten years, his solitude had increased to the point of being intolerable. He had hardly been able to touch his instruments for guilt. Hearing her voice was the only thing that made rising in the morning worthwhile. 

Was he being selfish? Absolutely. Thinking of his own comfort and the pleasure that her voice gave him, his single light in the darkness, when she did not know he was even listening to her was deplorable conduct. 

At least now, he grimly reflected, she was aware of her audience of one. If she did not sing to herself the next night, he would have all the answer he needed. 

Erik passed an anxious day, pacing through the cellars, stalking the hidden corridors (far, _far_ from the costume shop). And then at night, he strained his ears once the rest of the company were gone. 

At first, he thought he half-dreamed the sound. But, no, she was singing. One of the simple tunes she often gave glorious voice to, the melodies of which he was unfamiliar, until she sang and he committed the tunes to memory. 

Erik closed his eyes and listened. Her voice was weak in technique; she strained on her lower notes, too much air passing through her throat without the support and power common to graduates of the Conservatoire. But sound was so beautiful and she sang simply, without the affectation of those who had undergone schooling which robbed their voices of their individuality, producing a technically perfect, but woefully colorless sound. 

Well, until La Carlotta arrived. Erik had been wistfully thinking of those manufactured voices once her shrill tones echoed in his head.

But with the arrival of this girl, he heard color. The promise of rich tones, glorious natural talent. And joy. When she sang, she sounded happy. Only then - the few times he had seen her about the Opera, her head was bowed, seemingly bent to her work, but the set of her shoulders seemed so defeated. Upon the stage, with her head thrown back, a smile upon her face, she was utterly transformed. 

He crept above again, lured by the sound of her voice. This time he remained in the shadows, where she would not see him and he would not frighten her. Still, she seemed...not subdued, but reserved. She used to skip and twirl about the stage (occasionally in pieces borrowed from the properties room, her flyaway hair crowned in past jewels, or else wrapping herself in a silk shawl), clumsily dancing and performing for an imaginary audience.

Now she only sang, though her eyes flickered about, purposefully this time. She could not know he was there, and yet she seemed to expect to see him. That was confirmed when she ceased singing and sat down upon the stage. She was so small in the center of the towering set pieces, meant to mimic a medieval dungeon. Like a very tiny, very meek prisoner. 

_What is she doing?_ he wondered as she continued to sit, drawing her legs up beneath her petticoat, wrapping her arms around her knees. 

"Monsieur?" she called into the darkness. "Monsieur...Erik?"

Oh, no. No, no, no! He did not look at all as he ought. When he first approached her he spent time studying himself in the mirror. He could do nothing about his size nor his mien, but he could at least look clean and presentable. But he'd cast off his finer dress and was certain that after a day of distracted wanderings, he hardly looked polished.

The scars upon his neck would be a vivid red. Though the bite that had sealed his fate in his youth was healed over, just like all his other full moon injuries, the mauling he received prior to the bite left its mark upon him. He had not neglected the mask, but he was not in a fit state to be seen. 

And even so, she called for him. 

"I know you're there," she said, a hint of a smile entering her voice. As though she aimed to be the victor in a child's game of hide-and-go-seek. "Won't you...won't you come out? It's...odd. To be watched. When you can see me, but I can't see you."

Her eyes were raised to Box 5. The place he most often hid himself away to watch the performances and, more recently, her. But he was not there. 

"Good evening," he called down to her awkwardly from where he was perched in the flies. She brought a hand to her chest and he thought she was going to scream or run, but she only gasped.

"Oh!" she gave a nervous titter of laughter. "Hello, up there!"

She lifted her hand from her chest to wave at him - a gesture of such cheerful simplicity that he froze. He had prepared himself for her wariness, for her fear. But not friendliness. Weakly, he lifted a hand and waved back, thought that perhaps he ought to come slightly closer, and so he made a quick descent. 

With his back to her, Erik missed the girl's sweet smile turn to slack-jawed alarm as he effortlessly navigated his way down to the stage. By the time his feet were upon the ground and he'd turned back to face her, she'd managed to school her expression into something less shocked. Erik did not press his luck and kept his distance as she looked him over.

The expression upon her face was unreadable to him. Not as open as it had been when he was so far above her, but searching, considering. Her eyes were narrowed as she looked at him, top to toe, and he cursed himself for not taking greater care with his appearance. It was only that he genuinely did not expect to see her, but he hoped...oh, how pathetically he had hoped. 

"Much less frightening than your suit." 

"What?"

The girl lifted her head, apparently astonished. Belatedly, Erik realized that he hadn't been meant to hear her. But she recovered ably and said, "Oh! I just...you seem a little more...comfortable. Than last night. Less intimidating. In ordinary clothes."

Her face went very red and Erik could only blink stupidly in response. 

"Oh." _Say something else. SAY SOMETHING ELSE._ "I am sorry I frightened you, that is something I would never want to do."

"That's alright," she lifted her head and smiled at him. "I'm not frightened now."

She was not. Her heart was a gentle rhythm in her chest and the reek of fear was nowhere in the air. 

"Are _you_?"

Erik looked up sharply. Was _he_ frightened? So small, so frail, seated all alone in the great gloomy Opera House?

Oh yes. He was terrified. 

"I was afraid you...found my approaching you displeasing. An unwelcome intrusion," he admitted, though he did not give voice to his greatest fear. _I was afraid you would know me for the monster I am._

"You didn't intrude," she replied. "I...think I knew you were there all along. Or that someone was. I liked feeling as though I wasn't alone. You could really teach me to sing?"

_I liked feeling as though I wasn't alone._

He almost ran to her side, then, but held himself back. She was not afraid of him now. But he wasn't going to push his extraordinary luck.

"I think I could," he nodded. "I have...never taken on a student. But I have a great knowledge of music and I've learned through observation. You have such a great gift, mademoiselle, it only wants a little attention, a very little tutelage."

She went quiet, considering. Then nodded, seemingly in confirmation to a question she had asked herself. "Well...you've heard me sing...may I hear you play?"

Despite his impeccable hearing, Erik was certain he'd misunderstood. "...now?"

She nodded. Shifted so that she was fully facing him. And then extended a hand for him to take to help her to her feet.


	4. What Manner of Creature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many times can I quote the miniseries AND Y/K musical in this fic? SO MANY.

Christine had not lied to Monsieur Erik, exactly. When she said she wasn't afraid, she meant it...at the time. Only now that she'd invited him to take her hand and thus draw near to her, she could not help her stomach doing a little flip of anxiety as he came near. 

It was only that he was so very tall and broad. Sitting upon the floor was not helping the image she had of him, as a mountainous of a man who might crush her underfoot if she wasn't careful. The fanciful part of her mind started conjuring up images of ogres and trolls - ah, but that was silly. In the first place, such creatures resided in swamps and forests, not a modern metropolis. In the second, they were said to be dull and slow. Erik was...well, the speed at which he descended from his perch in the catwalks was so quick, she'd wondered if her eyes were playing tricks on her. And he was well-spoken. Intelligent. Apparently musical.

And now he was before her, his fingers hesitantly uncurling to gently brush against her outstretched hand. As his hand enfolded hers, she gave him a little encouraging smile, even as she gulped away a sudden attack of nerves. With an extraordinarily gentle tug, he helped her to her feet.

That he was strong, she had absolutely no doubt, but he was also careful. And respectful; no sooner was she standing (thus diminishing his height in her perspective to being less that of a mountain and more a quite steep hill) he dropped his her hand and folded his behind his back. 

Now that they were so close, she could not help her eyes being drawn to his mask; it was a creamy white, paler than his skin and shining dully in the dim light of the closed theatre. Upon his chin and neck were scars she did not remember seeing the night before. They were healed, but were deeply gouged; it appeared as if he had been _mauled_ once.

Curiosity fairly roared within her, but she bid it be quiet and, mimicking his posture, folded her hands behind her back and followed when he beckoned her away from the stage.

In silence, with only their footsteps echoing in the corridors, he led her to a rehearsal room, flicking on a light. Christine thought it was wonderful that the theatre was wired; when she and her father had been in the employ of the Comte de Chagny, they had been wiring the house and she liked to amuse herself, flicking the lights on and off in the scullery until she was severely chastised by the cook. 

Memories of that happy summer had been something to cling to during the dark hours of her father's illness. Not only were they employed, she had a true friend in the young Vicomte. What would he say, if he could see her now? Surely this was not what he imagined when he told her to present herself to the Opera manager.

But with a sad pang, she admitted to herself that he probably never thought of her at all. He gave no sign of it, not fulfilling his promise he made as he pressed a card with the address of the Opera into her palm and a kiss to her cheek, declaring that he would see her 'very soon.'

That was in the summertime. It was fall and the opera season was begun. Still, the Comte had not come. 

Instead, a stranger had appeared from the darkness, emerging from the shadows, finely dressed, wrapped in a black cloak. As she'd told him, he seemed much nicer-looking this evening; he was wearing a simple green shirt which brought out his eyes, brown woolen trousers. He looked just like the scene shifters who managed the elaborate system of flies. Some of them were sailors, making the most of their shore leave to earn a little extra money in a less dangerous occupation. They too were strong, fearsome-looking men...but she did not think Erik was ranked their number. At the very least she was sure she had never seen him before about the Opera; surely she wouldn't have forgotten him. 

Anyway, he carried himself like a gentleman. His posture was straight-backed as he sat before the piano and his manner of speaking was refined and proper. Neither a sailor nor a troll.

 _Who are you, Erik..._ what _are you?_

Her unspoken question was answered at once; indeed, he'd told her before. _A musician._

Erik's large hands moved lightly and gracefully over the keys. He played a selection from _Norma_ , the opera that La Carlotta would very soon star in. Christine had been unfamiliar with the music and, when listening to her employer during her infrequent rehearsals, thought it harsh, grating, and unpleasant. But when Erik played, it became lush, tragic, and very beautiful.

Then the tune altered; becoming altogether livelier and simpler. With a start Christine realized he was playing her own folksongs back to her, those merry tunes she would sing and dance to upon the stage when she thought she was alone. 

The music reminded her of her father, but not their last year of misery. It reminded her of happy times, life lived under blue skies and around roaring fires. They'd never settled in one place, not after her poor Maman's decease, but moved constantly. They were each the other's home. It had been a long time since she'd been able to think of him and smile, but she felt her lips curling as she leaned an elbow against the wooden top of the upright piano. She leaned her cheek against her hand and half-closed her eyes in dreamy reminiscence. No longer was she attempting to puzzle out the mystery of Erik, whether he be man or some manner of magician. She suspected the latter; he had momentarily bewitched her and she was happy to fall under his enchantment.

Until the music ceased abruptly. 

"Why did you stop?" she asked, dismayed.

"I didn't want to, you looked so - " Erik stopped himself and swallowed hard; the scars upon his neck seemingly vanished as the skin around them reddened to match. "The tune was new to me and you...stopped singing it. Earlier. I don't know the rest."

"Oh!" she smiled and asked if he would like to hear more.

Off of his encouraging nod, she sang - a happy tune about a young man courting a girl. Not priestesses or gods like _Norma_ , but ordinary folk. Country people. 

The song was as familiar to her as her own name, Christine sang it freely, almost carelessly. Natural as breathing. Until -

"Could you - it was lovely! Very lovely. But if you would square your shoulders a bit. Stand a little straighter - yes, just so, you'll be able to take in more air."

Thus began their first singing lesson. Christine had never been instructed in such a manner before. Her only teacher had been her father. And he never offered correction, only encouragement. 

Christine knew that more was required. She loved music so, and she knew her voice was pleasant, but Erik was right. She had no formal training. She was no peacock, like Madame Choletti, convinced of her own genius. She needed instruction, but she could not afford a place at the Conservatoire. Given her present circumstances, there was clearly no great patronage to support her. Aside from Jean Claude, the only living being who had offered her any help at all since her arrival in Paris was Erik. Strange, unfathomable Erik, who looked as though he shouldn't be real, but she could never credit her imagination with dreaming him up. But he _must_ be real. She'd felt his warm hand enfolding hers. She heard his soft voice now.

Erik was not a harsh tutor. He offered praise to begin, then gentle correction. It sounded like advice - well, meant, thoughtful. And, as the more they talked, the more she sang, she heard the difference. Singing had never been difficult for her, but she heard the sound change slightly. Fuller, stronger. With only a few simple suggestions about her posture and the shape of her mouth. 

"Thank you," he put his hands into his lap and looked at her with sincere and simple gratitude. Something in Christine's chest felt heavy, almost grieved. The tone of his deep voice was reserved and polite, but somehow wistful. As though he found her presence as inexplicable and magical as she found his. 

"Was that...did I do alright?" she asked awkwardly.

"Oh, mademoiselle," he sighed, with _such_ melancholy...almost like a song in itself. Christine wondered if Erik sang. His speaking voice was so powerful and beautiful. "Near perfection. You were - "

"Christine," she interrupted him, suddenly desperate that he should know her name, should call her by her name. He had not asked. And it seemed suddenly a gaping chasm between them, a shifting and unequal footing to begin upon. For they _were_ beginning something. Christine was uncertain of so very many things, but upon this matter only she had sudden clarity.

Her father always wanted her to sing, to bring the gift of music and joy to a troubled and unhappy world. He'd brought her to the Opera once, when she was a little girl. Someday it would be her upon the stage, he promised. God willing.

Whether it was God or fate, Christine could not say. But something was starting here, in this room, with this odd man. And in her very soul she felt it was meant to be. 

"My name is Christine," she repeated with a surety she hadn't felt in herself for weeks. She extended her hand to him again, to shake, ducking her head and smiling nervously. Erik only stared at her hand again, much as he had when she offered it upon the stage. She began to feel silly and almost lowered it - but then he reached out and shook it gingerly.

 _His hands are so big_ , she thought, and this time it was her neck that flushed red. It was not an exaggeration to say her hand was swallowed in his. His palms were calloused and rough, with a smattering of freckles on the backs that disappeared into his sleeve. What manner of magical creature had freckles?

"Have we just made a business arrangement?" he asked, breaking her out of her musings. Christine laughed, slightly giddy. 

"Yes," she said with a firm nod. "I believe so! I've never made one before, but a handshake seems very proper. Don't you think?"

Then Erik laughed. Well, chuckled, really, but it was such a wonderful sound. Rich and deep, and lovely. 

_I must hear him sing sometime. I must._

"I think so," he said, not looking at her, but at his hand. As if something incredible had happened when their hands touched. He rubbed his palms together once. Then pressed them lightly to his knees. "It's late. I should let you go to sleep."

Christine wasn't tired. Not a bit. But she thought Erik might be. Or, if not tired, overwrought. There was a terrible pained look in his eyes that she wished would vanish. Didn't he sense something wonderful was happening?

 _I will find you out_ , she vowed silently. _You're extraordinary and I want to know all about you._

"Alright," she nodded. "Good-night, Erik."

"Good-night," he did not rise and instead addressed the floor. She wanted to place her hand under his chin and lift his head, but didn't dare. "Christine."


	5. Up from the Depths

She'd touched him. Twice. Willingly extended her hand to him. Both instances of contact had been brief, but Erik could swear he felt the phantom imprint of her hand (so small, so frail) in his for hours after.

A rational part of his mind (with a voice very reminiscent of Gerard's) told him he was being ridiculous. Extending a hand to help a lady rise or hand her down from a carriage was commonplace. Handshakes between friends or, as he foolishly commented, business acquaintances were de rigueur. And yet, it had been so _long_ since he had actual, physical human contact, the mere fact of her hand in his seemed like a miracle.

Once he was back in his subterranean dwelling, Erik studied his hands by lantern light, searching for some sign of strangeness or deformity. There was none. _Yet_.

As the month dragged along, his pale human hands with blunt fingernails would coarsen, the nailbeds would darken and thicken until they resembled the hideous claws of an animal. But that was some few weeks away. For now he could pretend at humanity as well as he could. He must have pulled it off fairly well for she had _touched_ him.

Even Gerard did not venture such a thing. But then, Gerard knew what he was. What he was capable of. And even now planted rumors that Madame Carlotta's costume man had tired of her employ and gone to seek his fortunes elsewhere. There was even talk of a notice, left in her dressing room. No one could produce the physical specimen, but many claimed to have seen it. 

The man's name had been Joseph Buquet. He had been a costumier of some little skill; Madame Carlotta thought he flattered her figure so well she hired him on as her personal couturier and aide de camp. He had been married. Erik could not bear to learn anything else about the man; he felt heartsick to the point of being ill when he was reminded of him.

Though he had been the murderer, he had no memory of the crime. He never did. Those awful nights were a great black void into which no light emerged. Years ago, Gerard used to press him about it, sure that he could recall _something_ of the matter, if only he tried hard enough. But he never could.

There was pain. Then nothing. Then pain again upon waking. So much worse now than it had been when he was younger; it had been almost uniformly bad since he first went below-ground to wait out the full moon night. 

_Yes_ , Erik thought, clenching his hands and closing his eyes. Dull fingernails pressed into his palms, but did not bite, did not draw blood. _Gerard knows all. More than you. For he's seen the beast. He remembers._

Misery seeped into his thoughts, covering his good mood like ink spilled over a page. Gerard knew and neither touched him, nor visited with him. After his "retirement" from the Opera, he had not called in a social capacity. He brought provisions only and seemed to time those trips below to times of day when he knew Erik was least likely to be in his rooms. The girl - _Christine!_ \- had no idea what he was. She would not sing for him if she knew. She would not offer him her hands, if she knew.

But there was no reason she ought to know, Erik resolved. He opened his eyes and busied himself in hims small library, pawing through scores and reams of music to find pieces that would suit her. He would be as good as his word. He would aid the development of her voice and that was all. She produced the most splendid sound he'd ever heard and their work together confirmed it: with a very little assistance, she would hold audiences in thrall.

Once she had ascended to glory, he could descend back into the darkness from whence he'd come. That was what he promised himself; he could be contented as a monster in the dark so long as art and beauty once again reined upon the stage of the Opera. Once they heard her, there could be no doubt of it. No self-aggrandizement could stand in the face of such genuine, natural talent. 

Christine would sing and would be given her chance to perform. Once that happened, he would be content. He had to be. There was nothing else for him but to remain hidden and listen.

Her personal repertoire was...limited, he reflected. At least insofar as the Opera was concerned. All the songs she knew were unfamiliar to him, gay melodies and melancholy ballads, simple and repetitive. She seemed to have little practical knowledge of the theatre or its great composers. But nevermind. That could all be taught, and quite easily too. After all, his own education had been obtained from watching in hidden places and listening behind walls; she would have the benefit of a living instructor before her eyes. 

Just so long as he was careful. As long as he did not frighten her, nor give her reason to be afraid of him again. She had given him a very precious gift, even moreso than that of touch: trust. Trust in him to mould her voice. He would strike himself down before he betrayed that trust. 

_Where did she come from?_

That question had been on his mind since the first night he heard her. He knew she could not be a new acquisition from the Conservatoire; she was far too unpolished and the hour far too late for her to be a new member of the company he had not seen. From the state of her dress, he thought she might be a laundress and, indeed, that seemed closer to the truth.

As miserably turned out as he thought himself to be upon their second encounter, his clothes were in a decent state of repair. Her dress had been worn so much that no amount of washing would make it white again. And her shirtwaist was patched, worn thin around the shoulders and elbows and too big for her. He could not tell if it was because it had been bought second-hand or if she wasn't eating enough. 

Would it be too forward to bring her food? Condescending? It would be no trouble, no, nor even charity; he could not step food into a grocery's or even up to a roadside vendor without inciting alarm. But would she be offended by the offer?

...then again, if he did not ask, she could not refuse.

A simple basket of meat, cheese, and bread was prepared and for the second time in the evening he made the trek from his home to the upper levels of the opera house. He could be very quiet when he needed to be; it was a skill he had cultivated out of necessity. 

Observation led him to know she was living in the opera, just as he was. Only her accommodations were somewhat poorer; an ironing board covered with a few reams of unused cloth made her bed in a dingy little storage room. She tried to make it livable, however. She'd found a basin and jug for washing, a cracked mirror and little table and chair. There was a photograph leaning against the mirror. 

And just beyond, in her corner, she slept, head cushioned on her arms upon which rested a balled-up shawl to act as a pillow. Her breathing was slow and steady, her eyelids fluttered slightly. She was deeply asleep. 

He only meant to leave the basket somewhere she would see it, and off the floor to prevent its contents being nibbled by any of the bolder members of the Opera's company of mice and rats. The chair beside the table seemed the best place for it. 

And, yes, perhaps he gave into a bit of curiosity regarding the photograph. And, _alright_ , he might have reached out and nudged it more in his line of view. But he wanted to know more about her. And she was asleep, so he couldn't very well _ask_. 

The photograph showed a man in middle-age, bearded, and holding a violin. His eyes were so light they looked almost white in the fading image. His free hand rested upon the shoulder of a little girl - Christine? With light hair, a simple frock, and a mischievous smile on her face. The photograph had been taken out of doors; a grand house stood in the distance and a breeze ruffled the girl's loose hair. 

They were not the only figures in the image. Off to the side, as though he wasn't meant to be there, was a little boy. He was tow-headed, it seemed, like the girl and Erik wondered whether he was her brother. Only his clothes were much finer than hers. He had shoes on his feet and was wearing a neat sailor suit. The wind had played merry hell with his hair and it was untidy. The girl and the man (her father?) looked at the photographer. The boy looked at the girl. 

There was something familiar about the boy, though Erik couldn't place him. Something about the shape of his eyes and the set of his mouth, but he had no idea where he might have glimpsed him. This photograph was taken before a great country manor. And Erik had never been outside Paris in the whole of his life. 

Christine sighed and shifted in her sleep. Hastily, Erik nudged the picture back into its original location, wracking his mind to attempt to recall if there wasn't a small frame in the manager's office that no one would miss if it was...ah... _liberated_. The photograph couldn't have been more than ten years old, but a decade riding rough in Christine's pockets had aged it before its time. If it was important to her, it ought to be framed. 

His attentions, evidently, were neither too bold nor unwelcome. The next day, he was surprised to discover the empty basket containing a note written in a clear, but simple hand:

_**E -** _

_**Thank you.** _

_**\- C** _


	6. Waning Gibbous

Over the next few weeks, Erik did not merely prove himself a patient and capable teacher, but also a firm friend. When Christine was tired or overwhelmed with the tasks she'd been assigned, he was swift to offer assistance and quite capable at domestic tasks. He was even a deft hand at a needle and passed a memorable evening stitching up the dancers' costumes. 

"Laundry, mending, piano-playing, teaching," Christine listed off his many talents as he whipped down a torn hem with great speed and precision. "Is there anything you _can't_ do?"

"Many things," Erik replied immediately. "Purchasing clothing in a shop foremost among them - sewing is a necessity, not a passion. Anyway, I'm no great talent, my stitches are far too wide."

He held them out for her inspection and she could find no fault with them. In truth, she found it difficult to discover fault in him in any respect.

Erik was sitting cross-legged on the floor. Perched on a stool she was slightly above him and enjoyed looking at the way the light brought out the different shades in his hair: russet, copper, orange, and gold. His ears, poking out between the strands, seemed oddly pointed; she'd not noticed that before. Perhaps it was the angle. 

_Maybe he's an elf_ , she thought, a silly smile. He was wearing the green shirt again. With only a little imagination she could well imagine him stalking through an ancient forest, armed with quiver and bow, ready to defend the ancient gods from threats and guide weary and lost travelers safely home. 

Erik drew his handiwork back into his lap with a sigh. "There, you see. Scarcely passable. Either way, it should get the dancers' through the weekend's performance. If they don't shutter the production due to poor notices."

Christine cringed in sympathy; the reviews for _Norma_ in the press were almost uniformly bad. Madame Choletti refused to rehearse with the cast, and so demonstrated only the vaguest acknowledgement that she was not perpetually alone upon the stage. The director, fearing the worst, inserted a ballet in the second act where, according to Erik's scathing critiques, a ballet had no place being. It was purely done to please the patrons and did _not_ please the critics.

Madame Choletti refused to admit fault; her husband blamed the director and had him sacked. The rest of the company was on tenterhooks, none daring to speak in opposition for fear that they would be the next neck upon the chopping block. 

"In the spring," Erik sighed, "we did _Aida_ to great acclaim. Now look at what's become of us."

He spoke often that way of the theatre, 'our,' 'we,' 'us.' Yet aside from his claims to be a musician, Christine could not determine what role, if any, he served in the Opera House. Erik seemed to know everyone; any little piece of news or gossip Christine brought to him, imagining it would spark new conversation, seemed to have already reached his notice. All of Madame Choletti's little fits of pique, what performers had been thrown over by their beaux, what the plans had been for the temple set pieces. All received with nods, acknowledgement, and often additional information that even Christine did not know. 

"I wish I had been there, then," Christine replied, matching sigh for sigh. Though she had no friends among the company, they talked freely in front of her, as if she was not there. It seemed things had been quite, quite different before the turnover in management.

"So do I," Erik replied, looking at her very frankly and wistfully. "Everything was very...different. Under the management of Monsieur Carriere."

"From the way he's spoken of, he sounds like a saint," Christine said. Philippe, naturally, thought very highly of him and their friendship. The performers and stagehands universally seemed to love him; he was a great employer, benevolent patron, and almost-father to many. 

Erik was quiet, setting his work aside and picking up another dress, examining the broken fastenings with more scrutiny than they perhaps deserved. 

"I suppose he is," Erik replied quietly. This time he did not look at her. "He...yes. Is saintly, in his way."

"Do you know him very well?"

Erik stood up suddenly, sending the silks fluttering to the floor.

"It would be easier to do this by sunlight," he declared. "If you'll let me take the rest, I can have it all completed before the next performance."

There was no chance he hadn't heard her. They were sitting so close and she had spoken so clearly...besides, Erik heard _everything_. From hitches in her breathing to flaws in her technique, and things she thought she whispered too low to be heard. 

He was an enigma. Despite his solicitous nature, his helpfulness, his slightly wicked propensity to gossip, he gave very little of himself away. And when he spoke about matters beyond the Opera and music, he seemed only to want to know about her.

The meat of their lessons took only a little more than an hour, but many was the night they wiled away the time in conversation. He taxed her memory, asking for descriptions of the places she'd been, little provincial towns, seaside villas, and once, asked her to describe in excruciating detail the exact sight, feel, and warmth of a bonfire. Erik at once seemed to find the prospect of setting a great blaze in a forest foolish in the extreme, but also quite beautiful. 

It was in a clearing, she reassured him. Not anywhere particularly lush or crowded. Certainly nowhere like the Tuileries! 

"Though I haven't been to the Tuileries," she admitted during this longer chat; she hated to leave him and kept suppressing her yawns in hopes he would not take his leave of her, insisting she get her rest. 

"Oh, you ought to go," he encouraged her. "The gardens are very beautiful. Mind your step, though. I fell into a pond once and my...I received quite a thorough ticking off for it."

Erik immediately diverted the conversation, rattling off the names of other parks and amusements that she ought to take advantage of in the city, but she wasn't paying attention. 

Her first thought was that the pond must have been entirely emptied of water in the ensuing tidal wave that would result from _his_ falling in any body of water...but if he was ticked off for it, then surely he must have been young. A child? How long-lived were elves, anyway? Because if Erik was such a creature and he had been a child it would have been hundreds, perhaps _thousands_ of years ago. Long before the palace was constructed.

_Not an elf, then. But what?_

She came nearer the truth one memorable evening when Erik showed a flash of temper for the first time. Not directed at _her_ , never at her. Only to himself.

He had been more than usually quiet that night and his playing was not what it ought to have been. Christine sang her scales to warm up her voice - something new, which she had never done before, but Erik insisted. In the beginning she felt stupid, singing nonsense higher and higher, but she came round to his way of thinking soon enough. When she was finally permitted to sing actual words, she found the sound was much stronger and she could go on much longer without tiring. 

But that night, Erik's hands seemed clumsy upon the keys - and no wonder. A glance down and she realized he was wearing black gloves which doubtless hindered his playing. Why? Had he hurt himself?

He noticed her looking and removed his hands from the keyboard, hiding them in his lap. 

"I'm sorry," he spoke without looking at her. She began to detect an odd quality in his voice, a slightly slurring to his words that she might have put down to drink, only it didn't seem at all like him to imbibe - certainly not before one of their lessons! And his coordination in all respects other than his playing was as swift and graceful as ever. "I thought, I might...but it's useless. I'll be of no help to you today. I'm very sorry, Christine. I'll take my leave of you."

 _Chrishtine._ Though Erik was keeping his voice quiet, his jaw tight, she detected then, not a slurring, but a lisping. As though he had toothache. 

"Are you feeling alright?" she asked. The more closely she examined him, the stranger he looked. Erik's normally impeccable posture was hunched and he seemed noticeably bulkier, the seams on his shirt straining against his arms and back. 

"I'm...fine, I just...I should go," he said and rose to do just that, but she reached out fast and held his arm. The muscles beneath were so tense, it was as though she'd grabbed hold of an iron bar.

 _Perhaps he's a minotaur_ , she speculated to herself. _And the mask hides a snout and brass ring._

"You don't have to go," she insisted, a reversal of their first meeting when he pleaded with her to remain where she was and not flee from him. "Unless you're ill, of course, even if we don't have a lesson, we can just pass the time. If - if you'd like."

"Oh, Christine."

 _Oh, Chrishtine_. She had to stop herself from smiling; whatever ailment was plaguing him, he did not seem to be in pain from it. And the slight sibilance was really very endearing. 

"If you are amenable..." he trailed off, looking not at her, but at her hand upon his arm. He seemed afraid to disturb it, as though if he moved she might never touch him again.

"We could take a walk," she ventured, her right hand joining her left to encircle his forearm, tugging him up, though she knew she had no hope of budging him under her own strength. "Some...some fresh air might do you good."

It was late enough that the streets might not be crowded. Anyway, she doubted very much that Erik had anything to fear from bands of roughs - nor she, if she was in his company. 

"It might," he admitted. Then looked up at her. Far from nerves and frustration, his green and gold eyes flashed with a sparkle of mischief. Yes, that look might well be called a _twinkle_ and she was pleased to see it. "You talk about how little you've seen of the city...how would you like to see a good portion of it in an instant?"

"Do you have a magic mirror?" she asked, thinking nothing of the sort was beyond him. Erik grinned - and then she saw it. Just for a moment before he closed his mouth and stood up from the piano bench, but had she not grown to care for him to feel that she knew him, even a little bit, over the past weeks of their lessons and conversations, she would have dropped his arm at once when she saw what the trouble with his mouth was.

Whereas she had previously known him to have straight, white teeth, occasionally glimpsed when he smiled, she now perceived an elongation of his eye teeth, above and below. No wonder he was having difficulties with the letter 's.'

 _Maybe he's a vampyr_ , she mused, trying to tamp down her natural alarm. After all, she'd never seen him by daylight.

"Not a mirror," he replied. "But quite a nice view to show you, if you'll come with me. Get your shawl and wrap up, the air will probably be chilled."

Christine did as she was told, shaking her head once she was out of sight to dislodge thoughts of vampyrs. In the first place, they were cold and dead whereas Erik's arm beneath his sleeve had been warm and alive. And vampyrs were cruel, conniving things that aped at playing humans until they had their prey isolated and primed for the kill. If Erik wanted to drink her blood he might have done so a dozen times before. If he was a vampyr, he must have been a vegetarian. 

Once wrapped up against the purported chill, Erik beckoned her follow him and he led her up and and up until their course became clear: they were going to the roof. 

The final steps were tricky and he had her climb ahead of him to make it up a ladder to emerge beneath the great statue of Apollo. Immediately the need for her shawl became clear; the wind was strong and blew cold in her face. 

Erik emerged from the trapdoor behind her (after taking care to navigate his shoulders through), and joined her, holding a hand out for her to take. 

"It's a little narrow, but perfectly sound," he assured her. Nevertheless, she took his gloved hand gladly held it fast - making bold to wrap his arm about her waist for extra stability. 

_Not a vampyr_ , she thought as she pressed herself closer to Erik's chest. So much heat radiated from his body that he was like her own personal furnace. Unlike her, he had not added additional layers and did not seem to need them. After a surprised inhale of breath, which misted out of his mouth like a great cloud of steam ( _an automaton? half-man, half-locomotive?_ ), he positioned them in what he seemed to think was the ideal place, then placed the fingers of his free hand under her chin, bidding her raise her head.

"Don't look down," he advised. "But... _look_."

The city was all aglow, like a tree at Christmastime. Lights burned upon the streets below and from all the houses and few businesses that were open late. Raising her eyes higher still, Christine thought that it was not luminous she shouldn't have been able to see the stars...but alas. Though the light from the street did not filter quite so high as to obscure them, the moon was nearly full and so bright that it paled them.

Never mind; the view itself was enchanting. Far more than 'quite nice,' as Erik said. And with his warm body against hers, the chill did not trouble her. 

It was the most lovely, peaceful place she had been since arriving in Paris. Quiet, but thrumming with the lives lived below. Christine thought she could look and look and never get tired of it.

Craning her neck all the way back, she opened her mouth to thank Erik for such a gift as he'd given her, but the words dried up on her tongue. He had looked down at her when he felt her move her head and what she saw sent a chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the night air.

_His eyes! Dear God, what's happened to his eyes?_

The twinkle she perceived earlier was now a _glow_ , radiating light - but that was not what troubled her. They had entirely shifted in color. Rather than the beautiful green-and-gold that she had come to adore so much, now they were a fierce yellow-and-orange. The eyes of a lion or a tiger or a...

_Wolf._

"What's wrong?" Erik asked. For once she had not been able to school her face into pleasant neutrality. She was sure she looked as frightened as the first time she encountered him. "Is it the height?"

 _I must say nothing_ , Christine told herself firmly. _It would break his heart to know he tried to give me something wonderful and know I was afraid of him._

Yes, individually, these traits were alarming. Glowing eyes, sharp teeth...all things humanity were taught to fear for they were the markings of some vicious predator. But Christine knew in her heart that Erik meant her no harm. Even now, he inquired after her well-being. Kept her safe. And kept her warm. 

She lay her small hand over his enormous gloved one and pressed it firmly to her middle, reaching for his other arm to encircle her more closely. 

"I think I was only dizzy," she replied, finding her smile and her voice again. "This is...wonderful. Thank you so much, Erik, for showing it to me."

Erik smiled a closed-lipped smile, but even though his eyes were new and strange, she thought she detected his usual kindness in him. His grip around her was firm, but gentle. 

"Thank you for trusting me to show it to you," he replied. "Not to worry, I won't let you fall."

"I know," she said, with perhaps greater conviction than the moment called for. "I never doubted you."

Boldly, she tilted her head back against his broad chest and looked out at the city lights. Again, Erik tensed beneath her as though her simple touch and trust was something strange and foreign. But he relaxed again and held her, silently looking out at the city. No more words passed between them for a long while. And for the rest of that night there was no music. But she would not have left him for the world. At least until he declared the hour quite late and insisted upon walking her back to her bedroom so that she could sleep.

When he said he would not see her the next night she asked for no excuse, and nodded almost knowingly. She suspected as much. Even if he had not made his excuses to her, she would have known not to expect him. 

In the bright moonlight, Christine was able to see _everything_ quite clearly.


	7. Change to the Season

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** for a little bit of **body horror** , but that kind of comes with the territory with werewolves. Now featuring an addition to the cast: Jean-Claude!

It was a bad night.

Erik awoke from the full moon, head pounding as though he'd been slamming it against a wall, fingernails broken, bloody and ground down, chest still sluggishly bleeding from dozens of lacerations. Fortunately the only victim this time was himself.

Rather than moving with preternatural speed, he slowly scrubbed the floor free of blood and bits of skin as his chest re-knit itself together and his fingernails grew back, thicker and sharper than he'd like. They would recede over the next few weeks, but he rued the fact that he would not be able to play for Christine for a few days yet.

 _Christine._ His heart was heavy as he drew himself a bath, fretfully hoping that she had been unable to hear whatever noise emanated from below-stairs in the night. The rest of the company was happy to believe it was the tortured soul of a communard for they were in ignorance that there was a living creature eking out an existence beneath their feet. Christine knew - or at least, he assumed she suspected - that he was living below. It would be harder to convince her that there was a ghost in the cellars.

Grimly, he congratulated himself on his deception so far. Though he had no illusions that she still found his figure freakish, it was impossible that she had guessed the truth about him. She would not have welcomed his arms around her as she had done that night upon the roof. 

Erik would not call it an embrace. Embraces were touches of affection and she wanted his arms encircling her to ensure only that she did not fall. Despite the fact that he kept them far from the edge, the height seemed to discomfit her tremendously at first, but she soon seemed quite content. With the view, naturally. And that was nothing to do with him, he only showed her that it was there. 

Hot water was a good remedy for limbs that ached and flesh that had only just scabbed over. Closing his eyes, he prayed that her sleep was deep and untroubled with no howls or roars from the underworld to disturb her.

The noise was one of many reasons why he'd gone below-ground in the first place. The neighbors around his father's home became suspicious that he was somehow hiding a pack of fighting dogs in his parlor. It would have been funny, if it wasn't all so miserable. 

Exhaustion tugged at his mind and limbs; although Erik's mind was consumed by blackness on those awful nights, it was not restful. Even if he did not wake in pain, he always woke feeling as though he had completed some great exertion like swimming the Channel or climbing a mountain. But he forced himself awake, dried himself off, and fixed himself something to eat; his stomach was nearly always unsettled immediately upon waking. Reflecting upon the mechanics of his curse, he supposed that his inside were the last pieces of him to be set to rights. But although he wanted nothing more than to sleep, he knew he had to force himself to eat, otherwise he'd awaken shortly with hunger pangs as though he'd been starved for days.

Wrapped in a dressing gown, Erik moved morosely and slowly around his little house in the cellars. The routine of it helped calm his mind and stave off panic for the horror of it all always threatened to overwhelm him in the immediate aftermath.

Although this had been his lot for twenty years, there was still so _much_ that was unknown to him. He knew the tell-tale signs that a transformation was pending. The state of his hands, first of all, and sharpness of his teeth. The keenness of his sense would also sharpen to a point that was painful and distracting; the light would be too bright, sound too loud, scent too powerful. In the hours leading up to the rising of the moon, he would feel an aching in his bones and muscles that made any movement painful. And then the pain would crescendo and just when the thought he could bear it not a second longer, everything would fade to black. For him, it was an instant later that he would wake either dull and aching or wracked with pain, utterly disoriented for he rarely ended the night where it began. Yet several hours had passed. Several hours where his body was transformed into that of a creature from nightmare and roamed around, either destroying itself or anything in its path. 

The chains and manacles were meant to prevent both: the damage to himself and the damage to others. But Erik had chanced going without them again; the burns took days rather than minutes to scar over and he wanted to be able to play for Christine as soon as possible. She knew not to go below; Jean Claude warned her off it immediately. She told him as much and he silently blessed the man for giving good counsel and Christine herself for heeding it. 

The beast only had Erik himself for its prey. But it was no matter. His wounds were healed over by the time he fell upon his bed and when he woke again, hours later when the sun was setting, they would be gone. And in a few more days, he would be free to reunite with Christine again.

The day's dreams were sweet for they were all of her. She and he doing impossible things together. Walking down a public road in broad daylight. Visiting the gardens which she heard tell of, but had never seen. And himself watching from the darkness of Box Five as Christine finally sang in front of an audience. 

The last could become reality, he was certain of it, though there was a hindrance to his plans: Madame Carlotta, a woman who was quickly rising to the place of 'arch nemesis' in his life. Not only had she ordered her husband to cancel upcoming contracts with sopranos who were meant to perform at the Opera House (any male stars were, naturally, retained as performers), she had also ceased holding auditions for new talent. 

Madness. Utter, self-serving, incompetent madness. Even among the great singers (of whom Madame Carlotta could surely not be counted), not every voice was suited to every role. Those who excelled at playing Verdi's leading ladies rarely attempted Wagner. And auditions were a chance of seeing whether or not someone had a knack for a role, an ineffable _something_ that transformed them from actor and artist _into_ the character, given the proper wigs and costumes to aid the illusion.

Madame Carlotta played only herself. And it was a role that no one in Paris would throw their money away to see. 

None of this information was known to the company as yet. _Norma_ was set to close soon and they were eagerly awaiting auditions for the next production, _The Magic Flute_. Erik's ears were already ringing at the prospect of Madame Carlotta's shrieking rendition of "Der Hölle Rache."

The company was restless and unhappy. Erik heard them complain and he saw himself the changes that the Cholettis made when he ventured into the manager's office after closing. Thank God Gerard had not seen the mess that Monsieur Choletti had made of his books, he would have gone apoplectic from shock. 

Despite the damage being done, he still considered the Opera his home; he had nowhere else to go. And so, eventually awake and enervated, Erik made free to sit himself down behind the manager's desk once the theatre was emptied following yet another disastrous performance of _Norma_ , to attempt to make some sense of the muddled ledgers. Even if he could not play as yet, he could hold a pen in gloved hands. 

The sound and scent of someone approaching did not make him lift his head from his calculations (nor his spare paper for doing out the mathematics long-hand; Gerard had a phenomenal mind for doing up figures without writing them out which Erik had not inherited). The door opened revealing quite a familiar face and one who would likely not scream if he saw him. 

Indeed he did not; Jean-Claude let out a surprised gasp, but it eased into a shaky chuckle after a brief pause to collect himself.

"For half a second, I thought you were Gerard," he said, shutting the door behind him without locking it. Jean-Claude's manner was easy and polite, but he kept himself very near the door, as he always did when they were alone together. Friendly, but cautious. Erik did not blame him in the slightest. "But some things are too good to be true - what a mess, eh?" 

"The books are ghastly," Erik shook his head, running a hand over his hair. 

"Very good of you to look at them," Jean-Claude observed approvingly. "I had half a mind to take them to your father for a going-over, but I feared for the state of his heart."

Erik's mouth twisted slightly in a grimace; Gerard had a fine stout heart. He had to, in order to abide by the shocks it had taken over the years. Even so, if one thing was finally going to prove too much for Gerard Carriere to handle, it might well be the ruin of all his careful accounting and paperwork. 

"Why have we been ordering silk and velvet in such small quantities?" Erik asked. "We get a better price if we order by the bolt."

Jean-Claude scratched at his chin contemplatively. "Ah, that's Madame's doing. She wants the seamstresses to do up her clothes as well. Figures as how she's got dozens of girls under her, she can have a new ensemble every week!"

Erik's mouth dropped open in horror, though he closed it quickly. His teeth were still not what they ought to be and the sight, however brief, turned Jean-Claude pale. "The seamstresses do not work for Madame Carlotta! They work for the Opera House."

The color came back to Jean-Claude's face as he sighed and smiled ruefully. "Well, my boy, that's all one and the same now."

Repressing a growl of frustration, Erik set his pencil down sighed instead. "It's all going to pieces, isn't it? What was that from the Bible? You can build up a great Opera company over twenty years, yet La Carlotta will destroy it in twenty days?"

"Ey, now, that's near enough to blaspheming," Jean-Claude mockingly chided him. "We just need to wait it out, that's all. She'll get tired of it, you'll see. And maybe...maybe the Minister of Culture will give your father his job back, eh? It's a strange world; more impossible things have happened."

There it was again, two little words like a knife to the chest. _'Your father.'_ Jean-Claude alone acknowledged that Gerard Carriere shade blood with the _thing_ in the cellars. Even Erik did not do that, not even in his most private thoughts. It hurt far, far too much.

Without a word, Erik took up his pencil and got to figuring again. He assumed Jean-Claude would leave him be; he had a wife at home and children who would want their father. But it seemed he was in an unusually conversational mood for Jean-Claude leaned against the door in a would-be-casual kind of way, staring at Erik frankly over the line of his nose.

"Do you know, there's something that's been on my mind a few weeks now that I thought wanted going-over."

"Mm?" Erik asked, glancing up from the papers. Although he never got over his fear of him, Jean-Claude had always been kind to him. Even if their conversation was painful, Erik was grateful that he would speak to him at all.

"My eldest girl - Sophie, you know, in the corps?"

Erik did know her, she was a biddable, dark-haired girl. No great talent, but a hard worker and easy to get along with. He nodded in acknowledgement and Jean-Claude plowed on.

"She boards with a few of the other ballerinas and they've just had a girl go home to Brittany - rumor has it she's in the family way, but that's all it is, rumors. According to her she's got to nurse a sick aunt and should be back within the year...well, now that's suspicious...anyway! I thought that was a lucky thing because I happen to be acquainted with someone who needs a place to stay."

Sophie was no great dancer and Jean-Claude was no great wit. Even with his attempts to bury the lede, Erik felt a little trickle of nerves work its way down his spine. Christine. He was talking about Christine. She would leave soon, room with Sophie and her friends. Perhaps through their connections in the arts she would find a voice teacher in the world, one who was not self-taught through lonely observation.

It ought to have brought him satisfaction. After all, a voice like hers was meant to be shared. To bright light and joy to the world, not to him alone, not when he a creature undeserving of happiness, not when it would become more difficult to hide his dreadful secret the longer she remained at the Opera House...but as he contemplated her going away, it was like there was a gaping chasm opening up inside him. A blackness, deeper and darker than the one that took his mind every full moon threatened to consume him. And still Jean-Claude droned on, as if this was a casual conversation about politics or the weather.

"Nice girl. Pretty, if you like skinny, puny things, works in costumes," he continued. "So I said to her, listen, now, I know you need a room, cheap, and I've got just the thing - she's been staying in an old properties room. I'm sure you've realized."

Erik's throat was too tight to speak. Again, he nodded. The pencil splintered in his hand. Jean-Claude deigned not to notice.

"But here's the odd bit - she refuses!" he concluded. "Says she's _very happy_ where she's at - sleeping on an ironing table in a store room! Now, what do you make of that?"

No great wit, but Jean-Claude wasn't a dullard either. His eyes were narrowed, the wrinkled flesh around further creased as he stared intently at Erik. 

"I thought she'd be glad of company," he concluded. "Thought she must be lonely in this great place all night. But...seems she isn't as lonely as I thought."

Erik swallowed hard. With tremendous effort, he kept his voice low and his tone even. "Are you going to tell Gerard?"

"Aha!" Jean-Claude clapped his hands as though he'd triumphed. "So you _have_ been keeping her company. In... _ah_...person?"

That did not answer Erik's question. But rather than goad him over it, he only nodded, curtly. "I play the piano for her."

Why he felt the need to clarify was simple: he had to prove that he did have some things about himself that were worth bearing his company. Some traits that could be called admirable or appealing in another man. That some pure, human soul might deliberately seek him out for reasons that went beyond unacknowledged blood ties or loyalty to old friends. 

"Brave girl," Jean-Claude shook his head wonderingly. "But - no, what business of Gerard's is it who you talk to? I only wanted to be sure that someone was keeping an eye on her, looking after her. Such a bitty thing, all alone! I'd have taken her more in hand, but I've got five of my own to provide for. No, very happy she said she was. And who am I to interfere with very happy?"

 _Oh, thank God._ Erik could not help the visible relief that slumped his shoulders and coursed through him. He brushed the splinters from the pencil off his hand and took up another to continue his work. Letting well enough alone in this matter might be the kindest thing Jean-Claude had ever done for him. 

"Thank you," he said, meaning it from his heart.

A change overcame Jean-Claude's face. For an instant, he looked at him as he used to look at him - without fear, with a pure, well-intentioned kind of concern, like a fond uncle. It did not last long. And Erik could hardly fathom why he'd forgotten to be afraid of him, even so briefly. 

Jean-Claude cleared his throat and placed his hand upon the doorknob; their meetings were never hostile, but always brief. "Very good. You...take care, alright, Erik? Don't drive yourself mad over the ledger - it's all going to be hopeless come morning. They're altering the season, so I hear. No more _Magic Flute_ , Madame Carlotta doesn't like it. They're mounting _Faust_ next, or so I hear."

" _Faust_?" Erik asked incredulously. It did contain some of the more fantastical elements of _The Magic Flute_ , but it was a dour piece of work at the end of the day. At least Marguerite was redeemed in the end, which was more than could be said for Norma. 

_Christine would make an exquisite Marguerite_ , he reflected. The role suited her voice well. If only they were holding auditions!

" _Faust_!" Jean-Claude confirmed, startling him out of his reverie. "So, as I said, don't work too hard...ah. One more little matter before I go...what do you think, eh? About Mademoiselle Christine. Do you. Ah. Think she's pretty?"

Pretty. Was Christine pretty? Was Jean-Claude _joking_?

Flowers were pretty. Lace fans were pretty. Christine was...exceptional. In ways that went beyond her delicate features and clear blue eyes. She had a face which held such tenderness in its expressions, such feeling in her eyes. They way they sparkled when she smiled, the crooked turn of her mouth when she laughed, the way they'd gone quite solemn when she looked up at him and declared she trusted that he would not let her fall...Christine was not merely _pretty_. She was utterly beautiful, possessed of a rare, soul-deep beauty. Which only something as worthless and hideous as himself could truly appreciate, it being so far from what he was.

Not that it would do to tell Jean-Claude this; Erik had the distinct impression that he was being tested. 

"Pretty, yes, I suppose," he replied carefully. "But, ah. Nothing to your Sophie, naturally."

Jean-Claude beamed and chuckled with all fatherly pride. "Right you are! She claims she holds a grudge against me as she's got my nose, but I think she carries it off well! That's me off, then! Good-night, Erik."

Erik bid Jean-Claude farewell and attempted to apply himself to the books again...but felt his mind drifting. Thinking of Christine's eyes. Her smile...her _voice_.

But the voice was not in his head. He could hear her singing upon the stage. Though he told her not to expect him for a day or two. At first he thought she was singing for her own amusement, but realized she was not. She was running scales. She never ran scales without his explicit request. 

Erik rose, setting aside the pencil, and the books, throwing his scribblings into the bin, drawn to the sound like a man, half-insensible, out of a stupor. 

_Yes_ , he thought again, as he drew nearer to her. _She would make a wonderful Marguerite._


	8. Swear Not By the Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Christine, you've got it bad, girl.

_Loup-garou._

The term conjured up a memory in Christine so vivid it was as though she was living the scene over again. She and her father were newly come to France. She was very small. And they'd fallen in with a group of traveling folk as they traversed the countryside looking for a town large enough to venture setting up their wagons and stalls in hopes that some would pay a fair price for a pretty song. 

As was common among all people who gathered around the fireside in the evening, they sang and told stories. One of the stories was about a girl, lost in the woods. Along the path she meets a man, a strange, wild man with sharp teeth and black eyes who inquires of where she was bound. The girl told him everything. Her name. The name of the village where she lived. And her destination: a lonely cottage wherein resided the aging matriarch of her family. She was bringing her wine and cake, but had lost her way.

Though the wild man looked fierce, he was courteous. He set her back upon the path and took his leave; when she arrived at her grandmother's house, it was too late. The old woman was gone; nothing remained of her but a few bones and spots of blood. 

Christine had been rightly terrified, but the storyteller (an older woman who always had the stem of a pipe between her toothless gums) soothed her and said the story wasn't meant to terrify, but to _warn_. So long as she was a good girl who was wary of strangers and did not give too much of herself away, she would be alright. Papa laughed, held her close and kissed her brow; there was no need to worry. He'd always look after her.

'Always' turned out to be twelve short years. And it was not a black-eyed wild man who found Christine in the forest, but a gentleman with brown eyes, soft hands, and a sweet smile. 

But before she'd left the highways and by-ways of the world, she heard more stories. And fancied she knew something of monsters. The tales were always slightly different. Sometimes a benevolent lord suffered a monstrous curse, saved from it only by the pure love of a good woman. Other times there was no curse - merely an in-born trait, shedding one's human skin in exchange for a pelt, like a landlocked selkie. Some of the stories were romantic, others sad, still more tragic, but they shared some basic details:

Under the glow of a full moon, a person would be afflicted by a most startling transformation - human to animal. Or something _more_ than an animal. 

Erik's story seemed to be of a tragic bent. Christine had gone to the roof to watch the moon rise, full and bright and yellow. It was the sort of moon she'd loved as a girl for it meant safety. It illuminated the roadways and shone brightly through the treetops, warning off ne'er-do-wells from the places they made camp. The sort of moon that reminded her of bonfires and harvesttime, cider and fiddles.

But all her happy memories were hard to recall when she heard the sounds from down below.

She'd heard them before, but not so loudly; perhaps because she wasn't listening for them. Screams like a man in agonizing pain, then howls of long duration and heartbreaking misery. It was the latter which made Christine's heart ache in her chest, for she had been set upon by vicious, half-starved dogs more than once in her life. She knew which noises threatened violence. And she had also heard the pitiable wailing of lonely, neglected creatures. 

The sounds from the cellars seemed to her to be of the latter variety and she had half a mind to traipse down below and see if there was something, _anything_ , that she could do to make it stop. 

Only her good sense bade her stay where she was; there was so much she did not know. If, indeed, it was Erik crying out from the depths, she did not know if he would recognize her. Or want her near him at all. For as many stories as there were of men trapped in animal-forms only to be rescued by their wives or sweethearts (and _only_ them, the tales said nothing of students gone to rescue their teachers), there were just as many where friends and loved ones of those so afflicted to go unrecognized and then killed.

Christine was unable to sleep that night; she sat up instead, legs drawn up, back to the wall. She tried to keep herself calm and steady, but she could not help a few tears from escaping her eyes. He sounded _so_ miserable and her own uncertain paralysis in the face of his misery made her feel sick. 

There was no doubt in her mind that Erik was thus afflicted. And that he was in pain. But aside from that, she was utterly ignorant.

She tried so hard not to be afraid, though ever growl or roar that she heard, however faintly, made her heart leap into her throat instinctively. Erik swore he would never harm her and she did not doubt that he meant it. He was aware of what would happen to him that night. He tried to hide it from her, albeit unsuccessfully. If Christine was of a cynical bent, she might have thought this was all part of some hideous plan, like the creature in the forest wheedling information out of the girl with the intention of devouring her grandmother. But she was not and all evidence pointed to the contrary. 

Erik told her he would be several days away. And though the cries from below increased and decreased in volume and frequency, they never came any closer. Christine listened all night, wrapped in her cloak and remembering Erik's arms about her upon the rooftop.

She thought of that night very often; oddly often, considering how recent the memory was. The view, as she told him, was wonderful, but it was not the view which she recalled as she lay curled in her bed. She pretended that the stone wall was his broad chest. That his arms were around her. That she could feel the heat of his skin and the sound of his wonderful voice. She hadn't been properly held and embraced since her father died. It had been a year without feeling the embrace of another person; a brush of fingers exchanged between herself and a peddler were all she'd been satisfied with. Philippe held her hand and kissed her cheek when last they'd seen one another.

If Christine was less honest with herself, she might have chalked the particular attention her mind devoted to Erik to mere loneliness. Being starved for touch might be likened to other kinds of deprivation, such as hunger and thirst. Men in deserts were said to imagine oases to console themselves. And she had become rather spoiled for company in these last few weeks. Going back to near-invisibility in the Opera House by day was bearable when she recalled that there was music and conversation to be had by night.

And yet it was not only this that made her miss him so when he was gone. That made her wrap her blanket around her arms and back tightly, wishing it would impart some warmth. Christine did not merely miss human connection in the abstract, she missed Erik in particular. Very much. 

If God had handed her pen and paper and said, 'Draw what you think of as the ideal fellow and I'll see what I can do,' the result would have looked very little like Erik. Very likely her ideal would have had a face. But she could not deny that he was the most fascinating man she had ever met.

There was a refinement about his manners that she found intimidating, but he never made her feel uncouth. He was obviously intelligent, but he never made her feel stupid. His knowledge of Opera and classical compositions was immense as was the skill he demonstrated on the piano, but he seemed delighted by the folksongs that were the mainstays of her youth. In addition to that, there was a sweetness about him, uncommon to most adult men, an earnestness that she found a wonderful relief after all the arch comments and knowing titters she had endured from some of Philippe's other acquaintances in the Opera's chorus (before they decided to ignore her completely). But he was witty and burst forth with scathing observations that made her laugh and blush. She thought she could never be tired of talking to him.

Additionally, though at first she found his size and stature strange, and unnerving, Erik seemed aware of himself and, it seemed, made every effort not to loom over her. When they talked to one another, he stood at a distance so she did not have to crane her neck back to look at him. Most often he simply sat, either at the piano or upon the floor. He rarely touched her, even when instructing her. Sometimes he would lean toward her and caress the air about her throat, but with his fingers curled away. 

Until that fateful night upon the Opera roof, though his hands were gloved and it was she who fairly wrapped him around her like a blanket. Then she did not think of his form above hers as looming at all. She sank into the warmth he provided and longed to repeat it again. 

And yet there was this other part of himself that he tried to guard. She thought again of the mask, the scars upon his neck. Did they extend beyond its confines? Or was his face itself more lupine than human? His eyes, aside from that night upon the roof, were so lovely, so achingly human in their feeling and great beauty. His jaw, what she could see of it, seemed square and strong. And yet apart from his eyes, his jaw, his mouth, she knew nothing else of what he looked like. And though she surmised that he had undergone some physical and mental alteration, she knew not what form that alteration took. Nor how such a thing had come to be. Was he cursed? Born that way?

Erik alluded once to a past that might have included a childhood. And yet he said nothing at all of his parentage. Where he'd been born, how and why he had come to the Opera. Surely he'd had music lessons! And it was not possible that he had been born below-ground and abandoned there - he had been to the Tuileries, after all, and he had freckles which pointed to some time spent out of doors. 

With mounting despair, Christine attempted to block out the sounds with her shawl wrapped not around her shoulders, but around her ears. They went quieter and quieter closer to dawn. But it brought her little solace. Erik was clearly in pain, he might have been badly injured. He told her he would be several days away, but why? Would he occupy another form for those days? Or was his ordeal so horrendous that he required time for recovery?

The next day she was so distracted and tired that she half nodded-off over her ironing and burned clean through one of the druid priest's robes. She surmised that Erik lived somewhere below and several times she thought about darting into the cellars to find him. Only this was another warning she had been given and felt compelled to heed.

When Jean-Claude let her stay in the properties room, he looked her squarely in the eyes and said, _"There is a final condition. But this is for your sake and not mine. You must never ever go below into the cellars. This place is huge, you could get lost. And there are...things in the darkness. Dangers. I need you to understand that and swear that you will heed me or I cannot let you stay."_

Christine had been so anxious and desperate that Jean-Claude might have told her she had to stand on her head for thirty minutes every morning in order to secure her shelter and she would have gladly done so. This seemed an easy promise to keep. Why would she want to go into the cellars, after all? She promised easily that she had no desire to go traipsing around where she didn't belong, in dingy dampness, with only rats and eels for company. 

Little did she know her curiosity and concern would turn her thoughts to the depths, would leave her unhappy and at war with herself. But Jean-Claude was so stern and serious, seemingly really afraid for what might become of her. Although she liked Erik and cared for him very much, though their acquaintance was of short duration, she felt she had no choice but to heed Jean-Claude's warning. He had worked for the Opera far longer than she had. No doubt he knew of which he spoke.

Still she worried and fretted. After the performance was over for the night, she once again could not sleep though her body was tired, her mind was awash in worries for Erik. 

Finally she left the properties room, but not to venture below. Instead she went back to the Opera's stage, around the great stairs and backdrops meant to represent a temple. It was here where they met, where he begged her not to be afraid and promised he would do her no harm. She had been coming to the stage nearly nightly for weeks and not a thing had happened to harm her. 

Christine stood alone, looking out at the stalls and boxes of the house. She'd not become used to the grandeur of it all, the size of the place. Hundreds of people could gather under one roof and be transported into storybook lands, coming together, enthralled and enchanted by music. From the first time she came with her father to the Paris Opera when she was small, she was sure the place was magical. Now, as a young woman, she was convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was true.

She began with scales; if Erik could hear her, she hoped that it would please him to know she took heed to what he taught. Once her voice was properly warmed up, she closed her eyes. Imagined the pit full of musicians. Heard the sound of a flute piping, sweetly above the strings. Then she relaxed her shoulders, stood straight-backed, and took in a breath the way Erik taught her to, into her belly. And sang.

_"Chaste goddess, who dost bathe in silver light,_  
_These ancient, hallowed trees,_  
_Turn thy fair face upon us,_  
_Unveiled and unclouded..."_

Erik taught her that too. Christine knew the tune listening to the soprano who stood in for La Carlotta during the company's rehearsals, but muddled it all, not knowing the individual words, merely mimicking the sounds they made. Erik sat down with her, the libretto upon his lap and translated the Italian. 

"It's a plea," he explained. "To the goddess of the moon. Though Norma has broken her vows of chastity, she still prays. For peace to come to the land - see, _pace_ , right there - because her people want to go to war with the Romans, but she does not want war, for she's fallen in _love_ with a Roman."

"I didn't understand any of that from the performance," Christine confessed, worried at the time that Erik would laugh at her.

"I didn't expect you would," he replied, but rather than a biting retort about her ignorance, he went on, "how could you? Carlotta's Norma cannot be in love with Pollione; Madame Carlotta's love is reserved for only one person - herself."

They'd both had a laugh at that. 

_"Temper thou the burning hearts,_  
_The excessive zeal of thy people._  
_Enfold the earth in that sweet peace_  
_Which, through thee, reigns in heaven..."_

There was a bright painted moon above her, Christine knew. They shone a light behind it to illuminate it during this aria. Christine did not look back at the set, however. Her eyes were searching the darkness of the house, hoping against hope that Erik might come despite his words. Even if he did not play for her or teach her. She just wanted to see him and know that he was alright.

 _"Ah, be once more as you were_  
_When first I gave my heart to you!"_  
  
Then - there! In one of the boxes. The steady gleam of two glowing yellow eyes.

Though she had done her scales and practiced breathing properly, only now did she feel fully able to take a breath. With relief she closed her eyes and sang the final notes into the empty house. There was no applause, nor even a dim echo of her voice - more than once Erik lamented how unsuitable the auditorium was for voice and music. 

And when she raised her eyes again to the box, there was no light. But there had been! He had come. And if he had to go away again, so be it, but knowing that he had come at all, that they could and would resume their lessons and their talks, that she might touch him again and hear him again was everything. Enough that when she took herself back to her little room and was finally able to sleep, it was peaceful.


	9. Letting Go

Although their lessons brought Erik the keenest pleasure he'd felt in years, the last few nights left him with one troubling thought: It would all be over soon.

Christine's voice had always been exquisite. It only wanted a little training. This he had given her, and though she had not quite mastered all he had to teach, it was a very near thing. Soon she would be ready to set a course on her own.

Great singers, of course, retained vocal coaches for years and years. But that was not his destiny. Once Christine was recognized for the great artist she was, there would be no place for him in her life. She would find someone else, someone of real education, perhaps some modest wealth and influence...

Erik groaned and buried his face in his hands, heartsick with himself. His thoughts trended this way more and more often. Where once he had not imagined anything for Christine beyond managing to get her onstage where she belonged, he now found his mind racing further and further ahead. One did not become the toast of Paris overnight, but it was only a matter of time. Someday she would play a role that was perfect for her, that won her the hearts of her audience. Perhaps she would tour; her childhood had been spent in constant motion it seemed, therefore it was not impossible that she might miss the hustle and bustle of travel. He could envision her performing in Milan, Vienna, London. All the great concert houses of Europe. Perhaps she would solidify her repertoire under the tutelage of this unknown maestro. She might perform only a few roles, but all over the world.

While he remained below. Effectively chained, whether he wore the shackles or not. Perhaps he could persuade Jean-Claude to bring him the newspapers that he might read of her success.

As ever before he went above, Erik stopped to take stock of his appearance; although Christine seemed to prefer his simpler attire, he could not help feeling dreadfully under-dressed and entirely too exposed though it had been many, many weeks since their first encounter. An Opera cloak was useful for hiding the shape of the body. And a dignified, refined suit could mask a brutish bearing.

 _Mask._ Yes, as ever he made sure it was securely in place before he went above. He no longer attempted to hide the scars upon his chin and neck for Christine never commented upon them, but he dreaded the possibility of her seeing the rest. Christine had been more than usually tolerant of his appearance and it would be foolish in the extreme to expect more of her.

The night he had taken her to the roof might have been a disaster, had he not distracted her eyes with the entrancing city lights below. Though he tried to file down his claw-like fingernails, they thickened and sharpened within minutes afterward. The gloves were a last resort and prevented him playing the piano and being a proper teacher to her. He tried to limit his conversation so that she could not see his teeth and only hoped his hair was long enough and thick enough to camouflage his ears. But all that careful concealment could not hide how his body swelled and contorted itself in anticipation of the full moon. And yet Christine said nothing. Perhaps she was a touch myopic. 

He should have taken his leave of her far sooner than he did, if he had any home of disguising his nature, but he had not. Foolishness and denial; he sought to delay their inevitable parting as long as possible. Until it was almost too late. 

But now he looked as much like a man as he was able to. Again, the phantom image of this future music teacher appeared to him like a mirage. He imagined someone very dapper, but not without humor; Christine had an enchanting smile and ought to be made to laugh often. Genteel without being stuffy; stuffiness made her nervous. Perhaps a man from a humble beginning who attained success through talent and hard work. And handsome. He would probably be handsome. 

_And nothing at all like you_ , Erik grimly reflected as he walked up the many staircases and down long corridors to meet Christine for her evening's lesson. _Certainly not a great hideous brute who learned his trade spying from the rafters and listening at keyholes._

Why was he so troubled? Was this not what he'd set out to do from the start? What he had planned? To set her on a right course and then disappear from her life? It was what he intended. But not what he wanted.

_Do you think she's pretty?_

Jean-Claude's words had been haunting him since their conversation in the manager's office. At the time he thought little of it, merely an awkward attempt to win a compliment for his own child. But Erik could not help dwelling on Christine's physical beauty when they met; sometimes he would realize he was staring for she would smile at him oddly and he would feel heat rise in his neck. And yet it was as he thought that night: pretty was an inadequate descriptor. 

Yes, he could look upon her and see her clear skin, the cheeks of which flushed pink sometimes when he complimented her (a tribute to her humility). And her blue eyes sparkled so beautifully, as though instead of mere flesh, God had crafted them from a thousand glittering sapphires. And though Jean-Claude had not been paying compliments when he described her as 'puny' Erik thought it was a marvel of the human form that from a slight and slender body there came a voice of such strength and clarity. 

Christine was so much more than the sum of her parts. Would he find her mouth as comely if it did not smile with such sincere sweetness? Would her eyes be so lustrous were they not wide and credulous, eager to learn, and unafraid to look steadily on him without a glimmer of fear? Would her hair strike him as such a pretty shade of yellow if it did not fall down from its arrangement in merry disarray when she nodded along with him in animated conversation or threw her head back and laughed? Would her hands be so endearingly dainty if they did not hold his great awful mitts with a freely given tenderness.

And would her slender figure haunt him so had she not pressed herself against him, burying her pretty face in his chest and wrapping her arms around his middle when he returned to her after the full moon, declaring, "I'm so happy you're back!"

Erik froze. His arms hung limply at his sides. By the time he realized what was happening, she'd pulled away, folding her hands before her, looking shyly up at him through her eyelashes as thought she suddenly regretted what she had done. It took him ages to find his voice and when he did he only managed to whisper an awkward, "Thank you. I...have missed you."

 _Thank you._ What a paltry and unfeeling response! For it had been fully seven years since he had been held in such a manner. He remembered the last occasion quite clearly, though he wished he did not. It was a humiliating memory. 

He was barely twenty, but had managed to achieve, in his own queer way, something which many young men struggled to attain: a house and independent living. Through the combined efforts of himself and Gerard, they had managed to recreate a little flat in the cellars. One of the builders, during the Opera's long period of construction had installed some rudimentary plumbing and ventilation; apparently he had seen the writing on the wall and intended to wait out the Commune in his own bunker, beneath the half-completed Opera house. 

With the foundations laid, it was a relatively simple, if time-consuming task to create a livable environment. Gerard was able to draw upon some small knowledge of building he'd acquired when he was a youth toiling on his parents' farm in the countryside. As they worked, he talked to Erik more about his life before coming to Paris than he ever had before. Despite the fact that Erik was living away from him, for both their benefit, it was the closest he'd felt to his father in years. 

They first embarked upon this plan when Erik was seventeen; the transformations were too dangerous and his form too strange for him to continue living amongst ordinary people any longer. In those first few years, Gerard visited nearly every day, keeping him company so that he did not become too lonely. That was when he truly began to trust him to make decisions around artistic management. It helped tremendously in his isolation to have one living soul upon which he could rely for company and to have a task to which he could apply himself during the long hours of solitude. 

When Gerard left, he used to embrace him. It was an awkward business; Gerard himself towered above most men and did not particularly like feeling small and vulnerable before his son. But small touches were like a lifeline and carrying Gerard's scent on his clothes made him feel less alone even when he _was_ alone.

But one day, apparently, Gerard had enough of the matter. He made to rise to take his leave. Erik moved toward him, arms outstretched. And Gerard shook his head, raised his right arm and said, very clearly and succinctly, _"No."_

Had the Opera been blown to bits in that instant and all the stones crumbled onto his head, Erik could not have been more thoroughly crushed. Burning with shame, he lowered his arms and managed to swallow past the lump in his throat enough to whisper a stilted apology, _"Oh. I'm sorry, Papa."_

Gerard made no more comment, neither to explain or accept his apology. He took up his hat and his walking stick, then ascended back into the world above. His visits became significantly less frequent after that and when they spoke there was little talk of Gerard's past or their own relation to one another. They spoke of business and the Opera. Occasionally Gerard's social commitments. More like colleagues than anything else. It was then that Erik started to call him, 'Sir,' only. Eventually, 'Gerard.'

For his part, Gerard never asked him to alter the manner in which he spoke to him. Erik had to conclude that he preferred the distance his Christian name afforded him. 

Christine had no way of knowing how her actions would have affected him. How he would feel the burn of shock, humiliation, and desperate longing all at once. She did not know what memories plagued him. Nor could she know how terribly he wanted her to touch him again so that, prepared this time, he might hold her in turn.

She did touch his hands and for that he was grateful. When she was in a silly mood one night, she bade him let her stand before him, with her hands over his while he played. She said her mother let her do that when she was small. It made them both laugh, she said. 

That was the first time Christine spoke of her mother. It surprised Erik (who played Liszt while she lay her hands atop his and it did indeed make them both laugh). He assumed that her mother had passed in childbed or else that Christine had no memories of her. 

"Your mother was a pianist?" he asked curiously once their fun was had.

"Not a pian _ist_ ," she replied, turning to face him. She was still standing before him, practically in his lap and he scooted the piano bench back a few inches that she might have some space; she stayed exactly as she was. "She was not formally trained, but she was musical. She played at the church in the village where I was born. I'm not French, you know, though Papa and I came to France when I was small. I was born in Sweden - only don't ask me to tell you about it, I don't remember much."

Erik smiled; he did perhaps ask too many questions when she told him of the places she'd been and the things she had seen and experienced. Only she had been everywhere, it seemed. And he nowhere at all. On that one point, of all his many flaws, he could forgive himself. 

He did indulge himself enough to ask why she had come to France. And she told him that her father could not abide the house after her mother passed away, of a sudden, swift illness. He sold the house and piano to buy a wagon and mule. They left one day and never returned. 

"How old were you?" Erik asked. 

Christine said she was not entirely sure, but she had not yet been enrolled in the village school. Likely she was five, or thereabouts. 

Erik nodded in sympathy and spoke without thinking. "I was seven when my mother was killed."

Despite the distance he tried to put between them, Christine drew closer, brow creasing and hands clasping before her chest. "I'm so sorry! She was _killed_?"

He cursed his loose tongue and poor phrasing. It was true, his mother had not 'passed on,' or 'passed away.' She had been killed. Slaughtered, really. Brutally. Just like Joseph Buquet had been killed.

Shame and revulsion filled him so that he thought he might burst with it; he knocked the piano bench over as she stood. Only then did Christine back away from him, so fast that she bumped into the piano and steadied herself on the keys, producing a discordant melody.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, though she had nothing to be sorry for. "It must be...I shouldn't ask. Not if it hurts you."

It _did_ hurt, but not for the reasons she might think. Losing his mother so suddenly, so violently, pained him terribly. But what was worse - what Gerard knew and what made him keep away - was that he was _exactly_ the same as the monster that slew her. Once Erik had been angry at it, whoever it was, for killing her. For ruining his own life. But where once there had been anger was now only grief and guilt. It had not known what it was doing. It had no control over its actions. It was just a mad, wild, slavering animal. Like himself. 

So as not to alarm Christine, he tamped all that down. He agreed that they should talk of other things. Pleasanter things. That night she did not touch him again, but drew him out into conversation. They spoke of the alteration to the season. _Faust_ , he told her, would be an easier opera by far for her to understand, for she need not struggle with the language. 

It was on that night, trying so hard to keep his heart from racing away, his thoughts from spiraling downward into a swamp of hatred of himself that he thought of how best he might aid Christine. Although she could not audition, there was one way she might sing before the company. One tradition that had not been destroyed by the Choletti's was the usual outing to a local bistro that didn't mind theatrical types turning up in the evening to play and sing and drink until four o'clock in the morning. Madame Carlotta in particular was all too happy to have found herself another stage upon which to perform (and Erik had to assume her singing was less offensive to a crowd that was deep in their cups). 

Christine was in the Opera's employ. She could go. If he found her something suitable to wear, she could blend in among the performers and put her name in to sing for the crowd. Stage fright would be of no concern; she'd sung before rougher crowds than that by far, according to her tales. With a few minor preparations, she would be ready. And once they heard her, they would not be able to avoid letting her perform. Even if it was only in the chorus, it was a start; in his wildest imagination, he supposed they might give her Siebel. 

Idle musings became conviction. As Erik drew closer to her, smiling and waiting for him, he was decided. He would broach the topic with her that evening. See if she was amenable. And if she was, the gears would be set into motion.

Yes, it would mean withdrawing from her. Yes, it would mean returning back to the miserable loneliness of the last seven years. But she would be free and flourishing. And that was a far greater gift to give her, a better token of his...considerable affection than anything else. She was so much more than a pretty face and a sweet voice. She was music itself; and music could not be owned, it had to be shared with the world.

Besides, he was not too dishonest with himself to admit this: the more he saw her, the more time he spent with her, near her, listening to her, laughing with her, making music with her, the more he would come to depend on her. And the harder it would be to let her go. 


	10. The Bistro

It wasn't until the evening of her performance at the mysterious Bistro Erik spoke of that Christine felt the first twitching of butterflies in her stomach. It was a new experience; she'd never been nervous to sing before a crowd before. Not even the quality.

"They're not the _quality_ ," Erik huffed when she expressed her anxiety as the two of them worked in tandem to alter an old gown from last season's production of _La Traviata_ to fit her. "It's only the company. Perhaps the odd vicomte or two and their mistresses."

"Won't they recognize this dress?" she asked, imagining a scene directly out of The Little Glass Slipper, only rather than the gown being reduced to rags upon the stroke of midnight, that the chorus girl who wore it would recognize it and reduce her to tears by mocking her for having stolen it.

"They won't," Erik promised her. "We'll make certain of it."

It was a cream-colored evening dress with lace at the sleeves and crumpled paper roses and scarlet ribbons all around the bodice and skirt. The lace was removed and the trimmings taken off. Erik produced new trim (likely cannibalized from another costume), and when they had finished with it, the gown truly did look like a different dress. The shape was the same, but the waist had been taken in and shortened to fit her and the violently red trimmings (garish up close, but something that stood out upon the stage) were replaced with cream adornments. 

Erik had been unable to help her with the final finishings; he was back to wearing his gloves and speaking in a mumble. When he broached the topic of performing before the company, the sky had been full of stars and nothing else. The night of her strange debut coincided with the full moon and he - so sorrowfully! - expressed his regrets that he would not be able to see her off.

"You'll be splendid," he said, regarding her with the saddest look in his still-green eyes. "I have every faith in you. I hope you'll..."

What he hoped she did not know. He shook his head and his jaw tightened; though she could not tell, she thought he seemed on the verge of tears. When he bid her good-night, it felt like he was saying a final good-bye.

Christine cursed herself for a coward. So many times she almost told him what she suspected. This had been a perfect opportunity and yet the time never seemed right and words failed her.

 _'I know your secret!'_ sounded like an accusation. _'I've long suspected there's something...different about you,'_ was too coy. And _'I know you've tried to hide the truth about yourself, but I've found you out_! merely seemed callous. Because, as clear as it was to her _what_ he was, it was equally obvious that he did not want her to know the truth.

And bringing it all out into the open would hurt him. If Christine was cleverer, perhaps she would have discovered the way to coax him into confessing for himself, but she had not determined how to go about it. Erik's gentlemanly good manners and careful consideration of her comfort hindered her at every turn. And not merely when it came to exposing his secret. 

It was with a combination of embarrassment and frustration that she remembered that day when he let her touch his hands as he played the piano. It was not a ploy...not at _first_. She only thought it might be fun and it brought up fond memories of her childhood.

Now she was no longer a child. And when she turned to look at him, she realized that this was as close as they could come to looking one another directly in the eye. 

He was so close! A distance of a few inches, close enough to feel the heat of his body. If she leaned closer, or he did, they would have been a whisper away. 

Erik moved away. Clasped his hands loosely together. And asked her about her past. 

Disappointment suffused her. She tried to console herself that he was only being gentlemanly. That he did not wish to press his advantage...but it was also possible he simply did not _wish_ to kiss her. He had not returned her embrace that night she was so relieved to see him whole and well that she'd thrown her arms around him. It was possible that he maintained a distant interest in her for her voice's sake and nothing more.

Her intuition scoffed at that. Why would he draw her into deep conversation? There was no reason for him to spend so long talking to her at night, playing to amuse her, indulging her whims. Yes, she knew he was lonely, but loneliness did not account for the peculiar look in his eyes when they spoke. The way his gaze would linger on his face. The peculiar softness in his touch, on those infrequent occasions when they did touch.

When she had been standing before him, hoping to close the gap between them, she was sure he looked at her mouth. Yes, looked at her mouth quite distinctly. Then moved away. 

Christine did not think she suffered from an overabundance of confidence, but she knew enough of the world that she could tell when a man was interested in her. She had some unremarkable dalliances in recent years. Nothing very serious. Nothing very passionate. A few playful fumblings, that was all. But she could tell the difference between impassive interest and real desire. And she thought she saw desire in Erik's eyes...though it might have been a trick of the light.

She wondered what he would think of her now. Hair washed and styled, skin scrubbed clean and evened by careful application of rouge and powder from the company's make-up cases. Would he think she was pretty? Or was he like her: would he prefer her as she usually was, in the same drab work clothes, strands of hair hopelessly falling around her face?

Christine wished Erik had been able to see the product of their labors. Given the fact that he first appeared to her in evening clothes, she had to assume that his tastes ran toward the formal. Looking into the glass of the empty dressing room that she borrowed for the night, she wished she was standing before him rather than a mirror. She could use one of his sweet compliments to buck herself up before she went. 

_Erik thinks you'll be splendid_ , she reminded herself. _He has every faith in you. Now go. The sun is nearly set._

It was a Sunday. There were no performances and _Norma_ had concluded its run the night prior; it was a time for all the company to let loose a little steam before rehearsals for _Faust_ began.

The bistro was practically next door to the Opera. The night was chilled and Christine had no wrapper; her old shawl was too worn and battered to suffice. So she walked quickly. It was far too cold to nervously linger on the doorstep, her bare shoulders were freezing and she was eager for the light and warmth that glowed from the windows.

Not a shabby place, but not too grand either. There were serving people with offerings of food and drink, but they were not tuxedoed waiters like a grand restaurant. There were indeed many familiar faces, who smiled and nodded vaguely at her when she came in - there was no recognition on any of their faces. La Carlotta held court in the center of the room and Christine's breath caught when she saw who had Madame's attention.

A man of average height, with lustrous brown hair, highlighted gold in the candlelight. It fell below his collar in the style of the modern aesthetes, though his evening suit was itself conventional. Christine did not need him to turn around to remember his face.

She recognized him at once that day, on the outskirts of the city. She had been traveling with a small fair that numbered conjurers and tumblers among their number. She was an act sent out early to warm up the crowd. Not the main attraction. But he'd heard her. He remembered her. She hadn't thought he would.

Christine and her father had a bad year when she was nine years old. He was forced to set down his fiddle and seek employment for if he did not they might not survive another winter on the road. They were in Brittany and found a place in the great house of a fine, aristocratic lady whose nephew was spending the summer with her. The way she talked about Vicomte Philippe, Christine assumed he would be a man already, but he was not. Philippe - only Philippe as he asked her to call him - was but a few years older than her and he wasn't a bit intimidating.

He adored her father's playing and often spend time belowstairs, watching her at her chores, playing with her when she had spare time. He would sneak her into all the rooms she wasn't meant to be in unless she was cleaning them. The music room, and the library. He would sneak her chocolates, half-melted from being in his pockets. In exchange for these indulgences, she would entertain him with stories from her life which fascinated him.

Philippe's life was full of lessons in Latin, Greek, mathematics, geography, and etiquette. He knew how to dance, but he did not know how to whistle. He could fence, but had never climbed a tree. Summertime at his aunt's was the only season of the year when his time was not constantly taken up by one or the other tutor, rounded out by an hour spent in his parents' company after dinner. He was being educated privately at home; apart from little sisters, too young to leave the nursery, he had no children his own age to play with at all.

They had spent a summer enjoying all the fun of childhood that Philippe had been denied at once. It was a joyful time for them both. And when he found her after her performance, holding her hands and begging her pardon, asking if she remembered him at all, she was happy to say that she did. His face was so merry, his eyes so bright that even though he now _was_ the proper gentleman Christine had feared when she was a child of nine, he seemed to retain that same spirit of the boy of eleven he had been. 

Her happiness at their reunion turned to gratitude when he gave her his card and declared he would recommend her to the Paris Opera - it was like a dream. As though Fate, which deigned to give them one smiling summer now brought them together again. The Opera had been her father's desire for her, but without a proper education or the recommendation of a patron, it seemed destined to be unfulfilled. 

Philippe was so confident, so sure that his 'dear friend, Gerard Carriere,' would assist her and provide everything she might need that Christine did not doubt him. Not until she was informed that Monsieur Carriere was no longer employed at the Opera House. And that there were to be no lessons, no provision. But they did need a laundress and a seamstress, if that would suit her. 

It did. It had to. She had no friends, no money. And here it was, six months later, and only now did she see Philippe again. 

Christine almost walked back into that cold night. He had forgotten her. And why shouldn't he? She had ample proof that she was not the only girl who'd caught his ear and attention. It was obvious, she reflected sourly, that he was not that lonely boy anymore. He seemed to have many, _many_ playmates.

 _Stop that_ , she scolded herself. _You did not come here for Philippe's sake. You came for your own. And Erik worked far too hard for you to squander your chance over wounded pride. Now go on and put your name in to sing._

That, at least, she could do and easily. Pierre, a great gangling bass, was the self-appointed master of ceremonies these evenings. Of all the performers at the Opera, he was the nicest; he always said thank you when she brought him his costumes or took them away to be mended and he often tried to make her smile with a joke or two. They were never very funny, but Christine laughed anyway, pleased to be spoken to at all.

He stood a little way away from La Carlotta's party, collecting names on little pieces of paper which went into a half-bald velvet bag with a worn golden tie, probably left over from some production the company had put on years ago.

"Thank you, mademoiselle!" he boomed as Christine handed him her little slip of paper. Though he grinned in a friendly way, there was no sign he knew her as the mousy little costume girl. Christine smiled at him wanly; she supposed being treated as a stranger was nicer than being twitted or ignored. 

"Christine!"

Her age of invisibility would end as it began. With Philippe rushing toward her and calling her name. 

" _There_ you are!" he exclaimed as if she were late for an appointment. Philippe reached out for her, his hand cupping her shoulders, crushing the delicate silk flowers underneath. He kissed her cheeks and looked at her approvingly. "You look absolutely divine. How have you been? Is my city to your liking?"

It was a guileless smile. An innocent, careless smile. As though everything was as it ought to be, perfectly arranged around him. There was no malice in him, nor even arch artfulness. He seemed content to believe that the life he imagined her to be living when they parted - being given a place with the Opera's company, immediately being taken care of by his friend - had all come to pass.

"I haven't seen very much of it," she replied truthfully. "I have been...very busy."

"Yes, I'm sure you have," Philippe laughed. "I looked for you in _Norma_ last night, but I didn't see you - hard to tell one girl from the other under those robes, but it's wonderful to see you now. Ah, Gerard!"

Quite without her permission, Philippe seized her hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow. Christine found herself being dragged through the crush of people, skirting round a group of dancers, and in the direction of a man who had just arrived and only just given his hat and coat to the proprietor for safekeeping.

"There you are, Gerard, it's been an age!" Philippe let go of Christine's arm that he might surge forward to embrace his friend. Placing a hand at her back, Philippe urged Christine forward. "What do you think of her, eh, Gerard? A treasure! Have you ever heard so fine a voice?"

 _This must be Monsieur Carriere_ , Christine realized, blushing as she anticipated the inevitable awkwardness of their meeting. This was the man who was meant to secure her career. Instead, they had never met.

He was not at all what Christine imagined. Given the company's stories about how his artistic knack, how careful he was with finances, his fatherly interest in everyone's well-being, she envisioned a man in his seventies. Perhaps bespectacled, with a stooped posture and thin frame.

Instead Gerard Carriere was middle-aged, but only just. His brown hair was lightly drawn through with silver strands, he was very tall, broad-shouldered and strapping. He was also (her blush deepened) exceedingly handsome. With a square, strong jaw and kind, soft mouth beneath a neat mustache. 

"I apologize Philippe - mademoiselle - I have not had the pleasure," his voice was higher and softer than one would assume, given his stature, but very kind.

Philippe blustered about, insisting that they must have met. Why, only a few weeks...or was it months?...ago he'd sent her to the Opera to find a position, on his recommendation! Monsieur Carriere reminded him of his retirement, which Philippe seemed to have forgotten, and then the two of them engaged in a bit of back-and-forth, with Monsieur Carriere patiently insisting, despite Philippe's declarations to the contrary, that he had not met the mademoiselle before and that she must have arrived in Paris after the change in management.

Christine was only half-listening to the conversation for she found herself studying Monsieur Carriere closely. Perhaps it was only Philippe's firm insistence beside her, but she had the strangest sense that they _had_ met before. Or at least that he seemed very familiar. 

As Philippe crowed his astonishment that his two dearest friends had never met, he finally collected himself enough to make introductions. Monsieur Carriere was all easy charm as he took hold of Christine's right hand and kissed the back of it. 

"I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle," he smiled - that _smile_! It struck her as being so like another smile, but one she could not place. Not her father's; Papa did not have so many teeth as Monsieur Carriere and they were not so straight and white. "And to have the keen pleasure of hearing you sing. Did you put your name in already?"

 _Keen pleasure._ Something about his speaking - not the sound of his voice, merely the _way_ he spoke again prickled in her mind. She _knew_ this man. Or someone awfully like him.

"Yes, I did," she smiled, hoping he would chalk her hesitation up to nerves. Surely it would come to her, if they kept on speaking. "I...fear I might be outranked, though."

"Nonsense, I'm sure you'll do splendidly," Monsieur Carriere assured her. "My young friend hear has quite a fine ear for talent, if he says you're the finest singer of his acquaintance, I can well believe it."

That smile again. That warm smile. Those straight teeth. The flesh around his eyes wrinkled up and...his _eyes_. The darkest, most dazzling green. Shot through with golden flecks.

Christine knew those eyes. Had stared into them two weeks prior, trying to speak to them without words. _Won't you kiss me, Erik? Won't you come a little closer?_

The only person who did not gush about Monsieur Carriere had been Erik. He spoke of him once and very briefly. Saintly, he called him. Saintly in his way. And when Christine asked if he knew the man well, he'd not answered. She remembered tulle falling to the floor in a heap. 

Gerard Carriere had Erik's eyes. And Erik would not speak of him. They had to be related to one another. His brother, perhaps? Gadding about with Philippe whilst Erik was about to suffer agonies in the Opera cellars?

Philippe misinterpreted her stunned silence.

"Don't be nervous," he insisted, patting her hand as Pierre called everyone to attention; they were about to begin. "Come, sit by me. I'm sure you won't be the first up - you'll be able to see that this lot is nothing at all to you."

Like an automaton, like a little wooden doll Christine allowed herself to be led to a chair. Philippe left her to acquire a drink. And Monsieur Carriere took the remaining seat at the little table, though mercifully, he was drawn into conversation with several members of the Opera staff and let her alone with her thoughts.

 _What am I doing?_ she thought as Madame Carlotta began the evening. _Dear God, what is all this? None of this is right! Who is this man to Erik? How can Philippe hold my hand and smile as though he only saw me off a few days ago? I want to go. I don't belong here._

But where did she belong? The fair she'd joined over the summer was gone to warmer climes. Her father too was gone. The Opera was not the glittering promise of a new life she thought it might be. The only place she'd truly felt at home in recent memory was a dimly-lit rehearsal room with an impossible creature for company. 

It was full dark outside the bistro. The moon would be rising soon. And Christine missed Erik so much it was like a physical ache in her chest. 

"Dear _God_ ," Monsieur Carriere muttered beside her. "What is _that?_ "

Belatedly, Christine realized he was speaking to her.

"Erm. I think it's...'Ritnora Vincitor.' From _Aida_ ," Christine supplied, grateful to Erik's assistance with learning something of opera and something of how to pronounce Italian. 

"Oh, yes, of course," Monsieur Carriere nodded, with sly good humor. "She certainly is...enthusiastic. And loud."

 _And off-key_ , Christine thought to herself, but did not say aloud. It was the sort of conspiratorial humor she might share with Erik, but not with this stranger. No matter how much he reminded her of him. 

Philippe returned with champagne, but Christine did not have the chance to touch it. Although her name had not been the first called, it was the second. She took a steadying breath and ignored Philippe's words of encouragement. 

_You'll be splendid. I have every faith in you._

Murmurs sounded around her, _Who is that girl? Never seen her before, have you? Isn't that the mousey little laundress? Another of the Comte's little proteges, I fancy._

The pianist leaned over and asked her what she'd be singing. Despite La Carlotta's fancy, Erik advised her not to sing an opera aria - it wasn't the done thing at the bistro, the company had enough of opera in their work. They came to sing popular songs, bawdy ditties, and provincial tunes. 

When she made her selection, she asked what he would like to hear her sing. Not which best suited her voice or was the most impressive. Which was his favorite?

He hesitated before he answered, _"That...courting song. About the shepherdess, that you...that you used to sing often. When you first came here."_

It was one of Christine's favorites too. 

"'Laissez-moi planter le mai,'" she told the pianist.

He whistled between his teeth, but nodded in acknowledgement. "That's an ancient one - very well mademoiselle, take your place, I'll count you in."

Christine took a deep breath - into her belly, as Erik taught her. She'd done her scales before she came. She tried to imagine his voice in his ear, his hands ghosting close to her, but not quite touching her.

Stand up straight - relax. If your draw your shoulders up, it will tighten your throat. Try to breath down, not out...just so, Christine. Just so.

" _Yesterday morning I woke up,_  
 _(Let me know you)_  
 _Toward the woods I went,_  
 _Laughing along the way_  
 _Let me know you._  
 _For I am a kind and loving lad._ "

The murmuring stopped. For the first time in the whole of the evening, the bistro was quiet except for her voice and the piano behind her. Philippe was leaning forward in his seat, champagne flute dangling forgotten between his fingers, amber, bubbly liquid dripped onto the floor. Monsieur Carriere's brow creased and his mouth parted in what seemed to be wonder. Even Madame Carlotta was staring at her with a comical, pop-eyed expression.

The song finished and there was silence. Then a deafening roar of applause, whistling, and stamping.

"Another! Another! Go on again, mademoiselle!"

Christine glanced uncertainly at Pierre and his velvet bag. "Shouldn't I...let the next person have their turn?"

"They'll have it later!" Pierre scoffed, gesturing for her to remain upon the stage. "Go on, mademoiselle! It's not often you have a crowd eating out of your hand. Go on! Give the people what they want!"

The moonlight was dappled the pavement beyond the windows silver. Despite Erik's advice, she turned toward the pianist. "Could you play...'Casta Diva'? Please?"

The pianist laughed wickedly, though Christine did not see what was so funny. "With _pleasure_ , mademoiselle!"

She turned back to the audience. Drew in a breath to sing. The crowd had risen from their seats and drawn closer; Philippe stood right at her feet, gazing up at her with an adoring expression. It was not until she refused a second encore and let Philippe guide her back to their little table that she realized Monsieur Carriere was gone. 


	11. The Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. You know how Christine is so cute and insightful and Erik is so cute and sad? This is Gerard's chapter. And he is not cute.

Gerard had a pit in his stomach the second he saw Jean-Claude picking his way through the crowd with a stricken look on his face. The champagne he was sipping went sour on his tongue as Jean-Claude made a hasty greeting to the Comte and whispered urgently into Gerard's ear. " _Outside_."

A hot, sick feeling rose in him, but Gerard kept his expression neutral and his tone even as he tapped Philippe on the knee and said, "Forgive me, I'll be a few moments."

So enraptured was he by his young companion, Mademoiselle Daae, that Gerard doubted he noticed when he rose from the table. He did not pause at the entryway to retrieve his hat and cloak, but walked purposefully into the street, Jean-Claude hot on his heels.

"Where?" he asked, eyes scanning the road, ears pricked for the sound of agony. The light of the moon was a silver glow over the rooftops.

"I don't know where," Jean-Claude replied fretfully. "It was some minutes ago, I thought I saw...I _knew_ I saw! For who else looks as he does?"

 _There might be many_ , Gerard reflected grimly. It was why he always ventured out armed on full moon nights. One never knew what creatures lurked in the dark places of the world. He hadn't known, once. And he paid for his ignorance with the lives of those most dear to him. 

"I'll take care of it," he said resolutely. Jean-Claude's distressed expression only deepened. 

"I could - " he began to offer, but Gerard shook his head. 

"Thank you for telling me, my friend," he said, placing a hand upon Jean-Claude's shoulder and giving it a squeeze. "You've done your part. Go inside, make my excuses if I'm long away. And keep the company away from the windows."

Thus assigned his post, Jean-Claude hastened indoors. The wind bit at Gerard's face and he strode toward where he hoped he would find the creature: the Opera.

Fear prickled his mind and fury burned in his chest - why would Erik have done such a thing? He knew very well where he ought to be - chained five stories below the street where he could harm no one. What was he _doing_ , playing fast and loose with the lives of innocent people in the city? 

Guiltily, Gerard thought he might know already. He had not seen his son for two months together. Avoided him, in fact. Was it any wonder that he'd gone to a place of life and warmth? Erik had always longed for company and people, even if a stone wall separated him from them. He might have heard the commotion, even from the confines of the Opera. He might have come because he couldn't help himself.

_Your fault. If anything happens, it will always be your fault._

It was near the stables when he heard it - the distinctive crunch and crack of moans, cries that were half-human, half-animal. Gerard broke into a run; if the beast had at the horses, there would be no way to hide the scene of slaughter. 

He arrived after the transformation had done its terrible work. A shudder of horror ran through him at the sight; the creature itself was enormous, nearly five feet high in the shoulder and over seven feet long through the body at first glance it might be mistaken for a gigantic wolf. But a closer examination - assuming one survived long enough toe examine the thing closely - proved otherwise.

The muzzle was shorter than a wolf's, the sickly glowing yellow eyes farther apart. There was a huge density of musculature through the chest and back, an elongation of the rear limbs as though the thing might stand up upon two legs. In the paws there was a strange lengthened quality, suggestive of fingers.

Swallowing down instinctive disgust, Gerard whistled low to get its attention, but already saw the massive head raise, the snout sniff at the air. It knew he was there.

It turned quickly - for all its size and breadth, the thing could move swiftly, thick claws marking the stone - and Gerard braced itself as it bounded toward him. The mouth opened and he saw the fangs, long as his fingers and thick as his thumb and he braced himself, instinctively screwing up his eyes for what was to come.

 _SLURP_.

It ran its rough tongue over his face and Gerard could not suppress a noise of extreme distaste. The creature would have kept on at it had he not put his hands firmly in the ruff of russet at its neck and said, "Stop. _Stop._ "

It obeyed, sitting back on its haunches, cocking its head at him, the dreadful tongue lolling out. Behind it, the tail beat a rapid tattoo upon the floor as it swished back and forth in evident delight. The nearby horses whinnied and stamped their hooves nervously aware that they were in immediate danger.

Not Gerard, though. He actively cultivated a healthy fear in Jean-Claude, who was the only living soul beside himself to know the truth of the matter. It was done out of care and an abundance of caution. Although the creature had never done him a harm, Gerard was under no delusions that it was harmless or that it might never turn on him. 

The knowledge of what had befallen the assistant to the manager's wife burned away at him and the sight of the beast aboveground proved it: he'd been gone too far and too long. 

"Come with me," Gerard commanded the creature. " _Now_."

It complied immediately. It had always been biddable where Gerard was concerned, walking along behind him like an obedient dog. If the creature turned on him, Gerard could only pray that this was not the night it happened. Not if his plans for what to do with it were to come to fruition.

It ignored the livestock and padded along behind Gerard. He could hear its heavy breathing and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Gerard _hated_ the thing. Hated to look at it. Hated to think about it. After all, this was the creature that had killed his love. And murdered his son.

The pain and loathing had not always been quite so present and visceral. In the aftermath of the attack, he felt only numb shock, punctuated by fear for Erik's life and his relief when it seemed that his son would live...

 _Stop_ , he told himself just as sternly as he commanded the creature. _Stop it._

It did no good to dwell on those days. No matter how much he thought of it, he could not change the past. Could not deny Bella her insistence that they take Erik on an outing to the park, despite the lateness of the hour.

The night was warm, she pointed out. They'd been so busy lately. It would be a treat for him. And there was nothing to fear from the darkness; the moon was too big and bright for them to be set upon by men who sought to do them harm.

Men? No. But beasts? Ah. They'd not been thinking of such things. Had not known of such things. Not _then_.

When Gerard thought of himself as he was, he wanted to shake that self-satisfied young idiot. Even after he understood the full extent of what he had allowed to happen, what he'd been unable to prevent he was still foolishly optimistic. _Yes_ , Erik's face had been all but destroyed, but his mind was intact. _Yes_ , he was...incapacitated once a month, but he might still be able to eke out a career...

Gerard had been able to delude himself - both of them - until Erik was twelve or thirteen. When, apart from his scars and disfigurement, he still _looked_ human most of the time.

A pressure at his back made Gerard tense. The creature had gently bumped into him with its great head bowed. When Gerard looked back, it was staring at him, tongue lolling out of its mouth, head cocked. The damnable tail was still wagging furiously. 

With a heavy sigh, Gerard crouched down a bit. They did not have time for this. He needed to get the creature further belowground immediately. There was no telling if some night watchman or passer-by saw or heard something they shouldn't. But if he did not indulge the beast in this, he would likely have a more difficult time doing what needed to be done.

The creature came forward and lifted its neck to rest its powerful jaws against Gerard's shoulder, nuzzling the side of his face. Mercifully, it did not lick him again. 

Breathing hard through his revulsion, Gerard reached out and scratched the thing behind the ears, a grotesque parody of affection. Appearances aside, this was not a dog or a wolf, it was _nightmare_.

It destroyed his son. Murdered him. Over and over again. And he hated it for that.

He used to think that maybe Erik was still in that monstrous husk. Maybe, buried deep inside. The creature seemed docile, after all, and Erik was a gentle sort of person. When it was small, it would curl up beside Gerard, rest its head against his side as Erik used to when he was small and tired. Perhaps its thoughts were not as complex, perhaps Erik could not truly communicate with him, but Gerard felt sure that he was there somewhere.

Yet no matter how many times he asked him if he remembered anything of the full moon nights, Erik would reply in the negative. Not a thing. It was all a blank. Blackness.

The fact that he could not remember caused him extreme distress. He woke panicked. And the transformations hurt him. Eventually Gerard had to conclude that there was nothing of his son at all in this monster. 

But, he gamely tried to deceive himself, what of that! It was only once a month. Even if the creature was not his son, it was only like having a large dog about the place. Erik might still have some kind of life. There was still hope.

Hope seemed further and further away with each passing year. By the time Erik was fourteen, they were the same height. Sixteen and he fairly towered over his father. Eighteen and...well. Eighteen was the year he stopped going out in public at all, if he could help it. 

And as Erik grew, so did the creature. Every full moon it became bigger, stronger, and more vicious-looking. Until finally it was no longer a mystical dog in Gerard's mind, but the same - the _exact_ same - monster that slew Belladova. Despite its continual seeking affection. Despite its gentle mien toward Gerard himself. It was a killer. On those nights when it was left alone (Gerard stopped being able to abide staying the night along side it when Erik was seventeen, ten years into their ordeal), it would attack itself and leave Erik bloodied the next morning. Gerard hated the sight of those wounds, though they vanished quickly. Hated them and hated the beast. 

And now it had killed a man. And it _must_ be kept away from people.

Guiltily, Gerard thought of the gun and its chambers of silver bullets. He knew the thing could not abide silver - Erik could not bear the touch of it either, it was the only thing that could really injure him, leaving wounds and burns that never quite healed. It would be the right thing to do. To destroy it forever. 

But to destroy the creature would mean killing Erik. And that Gerard could not have on his conscience. 

Gerard pulled away from the thing, straightening his suit and dusting the clinging strands of fur from his lapels. Erik used to embrace him like that. No matter how much larger than his father he became, he liked to bury his face in the join in his neck and shoulder. He would breath him in quite distinctly; Gerard thought nothing of it, until one day his mind put the two together. Then he could no longer hold his son with affection. He thought only that he was being _scented_ by some monster. And it was horrifying.

"Come along," he said, more insistently now. And down, down, down the descended. Not quite to the depths, but to the third cellar. Gerard had not rescinded his keys and the new management had not noticed. He used this contraband to open a strong locked door; the room had once stored gunpowder during the Commune. It served a very different purpose now. A passerby would think nothing of it, would assume it was only an oddly deep storage room. None but Gerard knew its true purpose.

The creature had stopped following. It stood some yards away, its head bowed, ears flat. It whimpered deep in its throat.

The room was full of antique mirrors. Silver-backed in ornate frames. 

"Go on," Gerard said, trying to make his voice low. His tone coaxing. "Go on in. Come here, now. _Come_."

Despite itself, it obeyed. Slowly slinking forward it raised its head. Ran its tongue over Gerard's hand. He allowed it. Then shooed it in, waiting until the creature was standing in the midst of the room. It was trembling. It raised its great awful head to look back at Gerard. The yellow eyes looked almost sorrowful. 

And then Gerard slammed the door shut. 

A wailing, howling desperate keening emerged from within the room as Gerard frantically locked the door with trembling hands. He turned away, but was unable to move as his knees went weak and the bile bubbled up in his throat as though he would be sick. His head swam and he braced himself on his knees, hot tears prickling at his eyes.

"Damn you!" he shouted, his bellows coming in time with the creature's cries. "Damn you! Damn you!"

He did not know which he hated more: the monster or himself.

Like a drunken man he stumbled away. The gun felt heave in his breast pocket. But he wouldn't touch it. He couldn't. 

With every step he took away from the beast, he felt a little more like himself. He had to return to the bistro, he'd been away too long, Philippe would comment and he thought of one of the dozen ready lies he had about him for such nights. Gerard would return. Have a drink. Stay an hour. Then take himself home early; by daylight his son would come back from his monthly demise, in a wretched state. Gerard would have to let him out; if he left him there, it would have been even crueler than putting a bullet between his eyes.

By the time he was back on the street, in the bracing night air, Gerard could no longer hear the creatures pitiable wails. The cold was like a slap in the face, stinging his cheeks. When he raised his hands to his face, his cheeks were wet. 

Gerard took in a breath and blew out a fine mist. He would have to take a walk around the block before he went to the bistro. To get the redness out of his eyes. Philippe would want to know what the matter was and Gerard could never tell him. Never tell anyone.

Heart as heavy as the unused gun in his pocket, Gerard slowly walked away from the Opera, trying to put his mind from the torment of the monster in the cellars. At least until sunlight dappled the horizon and drove away the killing night.


	12. What the Heart Wants

The evening passed in a whirlwind, Philippe introduced her to _everyone_ , even people she had already met. Madame Carlotta in particular acted as though they were newly acquainted, though Christine had personally been on her hands and knees before the woman, pinning up her hem during her costume fittings for _Norma_. Monsieur Choletti dangled the promise of a contract before her, especially after Philippe said it was his most sincere wish that she progress far.

It was everything she wanted. Everything she and Erik worked for. And yet she could not bask in the glow of her success, knowing that he was out there alone and in pain. 

The mysterious Monsieur Carriere eventually returned, but he seemed as distracted as Christine herself was. He often asked Philippe to repeat himself and constantly glanced out the windows of the bistro. He drank a single glass of wine, declined to dance with any of the women who asked him and left early. 

Philippe did not seem to think much of it. He did not seem to dwell for too long or too deeply on any particular matter. Although Monsieur Choletti's comment about a contract might have prompted him to ask why she did not have one already, but he simply smiled and stated his wishes. Philippe did not ask where Monsieur Carriere had been during his disappearance, nor where he was going. He smiled and bid him a good evening. Even when he took Christine's hand and gazed into her eyes, there was something lacking. He smiled and asked her questions and responded, but she could not help feeling he was not really hearing her. 

It would be unkind and unfair to claim he was being inattentive or brusque. He politely declined invitations to drink or dance with the women who flocked to him, and kept his attention squarely on Christine, which she appreciated. He was as warm and kind in the bistro as he had been the last time they met. Even so, there was an ineffable distance between them. As though they were speaking to one another through a pane of thick glass. 

Erik had spoiled her, she realized. Having no one but him to talk to for weeks had utterly ruined her for conversation with others. For not only was Erik attentive and kind, he genuinely listened to her and seemed interested in what she said. He spoke to her and looked at her as though she was the most fascinating creature on earth. She hadn't enjoyed such deep and enthralling conversation in years...possibly ever. Camaraderie around around a campfire came close, but in those days her father had been with her and everyone spoke to both of them or her through him, not Christine alone.

After she lost him, her demeanor changed. She became quieter, with a stillness that was mistaken for shyness and not for what it was: grief. Once she was arrived at the Opera, that stillness threatened to swallow her until she was as lifeless as one of the Opera's many statues.

The only time she felt a spark of her former liveliness return was when she sang. She promised Papa that she would keep on singing, no matter what. At first she fulfilled that promise by continuing the work they had always done together. Then, by taking the stage of the Opera where he had imagined she might one day be. Even if she was alone and singing to no one but herself and God, she would keep her promise to her father.

She hadn't been alone, though. Erik had been there, in the darkness, listening. And now everyone's dreams were coming true. Hers, her father's, Philippe's...but what of Erik?

"Christine?" Philippe rubbed his thumb in slow circles on the back of her hand, smiling indulgently at her. Always smiling. She wondered if his mouth got tired from it. "Would you like to dance?"

 _Dance?_ she looked round; most of the tables had been pushed to the wall. The singing was over and nearly everyone was on their feet. She supposed she should want to dance, to joyfully expend the energy inside her...but her energy felt oddly depleted, her heart strangely empty. She wanted to go back to bed. 

But to go back to the Opera would mean being alone again. Listening to the horrible howling from beneath the stones. A friend, alone and in pain, without anyone to comfort him. No, she did not feel like dancing and she did not want to be alone either.

"Or," Philippe's grip upon her hand became tighter. "Would you like to slip away? Be alone? It's been quite an evening for you!"

Christine nodded, mutely. What was it she wanted? It was getting harder and harder to tell.

Philippe called his carriage and Christine followed along, as though her body was disconnected from her soul. She wondered if this was what it was like to be a ghost, spirit wafting gloomily along. Why did this feel so sad and strange? When she'd first shaken Erik's hand she had been infused with a giddy glee, a certainty that she was beginning a wonderful adventure. Now, when it seemed her dreams were coming true, she felt only a crushing sense of loss. It confounded her.

"Oh!" Philippe exclaimed as he made to hand her up into his chaise. "You've left your wrap - ah, nevermind."

He gallantly removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders. It smelt strongly of cologne. Not a bad smell, but heady and overwhelming and Christine had not eaten enough before she drank the champagne Philippe brought to her. The scent made her feel a bit ill. 

Still, she recognized he was being thoughtful and gentlemanly and smiled, drawing the heavy wool around her. It was cold. 

Philippe followed her into the carriage and flicked the reins.

"Shall I take you back to your flat?" he inquired. "Or would you prefer a drive?"

A drive, Christine replied at once. He smiled at her - had he always been smiling? Had he stopped? Was this a new smile, or simply a wider version of the one he'd worn all evening?

Philippe was an able horseman and drove them through the city, pointing out various sites of interest. If he had come to her sooner, perhaps she might have enjoyed herself. If he had followed her to Paris and taken her on a drive when she was newly come, no doubt she would have thought it quite glamorous, to be driven round the city in a smart gig while wearing a beautiful silk gown. 

Christine had seen the city already. More of it in an instant than Philippe could show her in an hour. All of this, the cologne, the carriage, the company...she couldn't help comparing the two experiences and finding she preferred warm arms to a perfumed greatcoat and the view from the rooftop than that from the street. Philippe stopped abruptly and Christine colored and felt hot with embarrassment. She hadn't been listening to him; no doubt he realized and was hurt.

"What do you think, hmm?" he asked, nodding toward the building before them - a hotel. 

"It's...very nice," she replied. It seemed new, seven stories high with gleaming windows and a doorman in a smart uniform. 

"Good, I hoped you'd approve," Philippe replied. "It's not too far from the Opera, but in quite a nice part of town, plenty of shops and amusements in walking or driving distance. Jean-Claude told me you had a room with his daughter and...three other girls? I think this will be much more suitable. If you're amenable."

Christine really had _not_ been listening. Did Philippe mean to...put her up in this hotel?

Her mind flashed back to the first day she'd come to the Opera. A dozen tittering women, laughing at her, showing her photographs, bracelets, and earrings, all gifts of their patron. She wondered if any of them called this hotel home. 

Looking at him, Christine tried to remember that little boy who she'd adored so much ten years ago. Her friend and constant playmate. They'd both changed. She was a little sadder, a little more knowledgeable of the world. He, more boisterous, freer in his demeanor. When he was younger, he'd confessed to her often how stifled he felt by his life, the constraints upon him. The weight of his position. His parents' expectations. When he was a man, he fiercely declared, he would be _different_.

 _Different how?_ Christine asked him. Her father had dreams for her, but not expectations. He only wished for her to sing, love, and be happy. 

_I'll give all my money and fine clothes to the poor_ , Philippe replied at once. _I'll keep only enough to buy myself a sailing ship. And then I'll see the world. You can come with me! We'll be pirates._

And she swore she would. But those were vows that could not be kept. They were so young! Children. And children grew up.

Christine tried putting him off. To refuse without seeming ungrateful. She could not blame Philippe; she knew how young men of society were to young women like her. They were not children any longer; they were from two different worlds. And places like the Opera and this hotel were the only places their worlds could meet.

"I'm very happy where I am," she insisted. "I don't...need any of this."

"Nonsense, of course you deserve this!" Philippe replied, mishearing her. "I don't like to think of you living cheek to jowl with a lot of silly ballerinas - bores, all of them! You're different, Christine. You deserve a...home of your own. Even when I was small I said I would take care of you. Don't you remember?"

 _You said you would take care of the poor_ , Christine recalled. _And that we would be pirates._

"And, ahm," Philippe seemed slightly stymied, as though he had been thrown off playing a scene that he knew by heart. "I could see you. More often."

Christine's eyes closed with understanding. It would be like _that_ , then. Again, she wondered: If he had come to her sooner, would this arrangement seem wonderful to her? Would she be taken up with her own good fortune: Employment at the Opera, a handsome patron, a suite of rooms in a fashionable hotel?

Very likely she would have thanked her lucky stars. But she had experienced so much since she'd come and all of what Philippe offered, the luxury, security, it didn't mean as much to her as quiet nights filled with music, conversation, and...deep, abiding affection. 

"Philippe," Christine spoke up, more firmly now. "You haven't seen me at _all_. Since I came to the Opera, you...you never even wrote a letter."

For the first time all evening, Philippe wasn't smiling. "How could I? I didn't know where you were staying? How was I to know I ought to address my missives to Mademoiselle Christine Daae, care of the box office manager's _daughter_?"

"Were there any?" Christine asked, coolly. "Letters I mean? Did you write me letters you could not send?"

Philippe flicked the reins against his horse's back. The hotel faded into the distance and Christine felt a profound sense of relief. 

"I had other engagements," he explained, looking not at her, but at the road. "Obligations. One of my sisters is likely to be very soon engaged. And I had friends to whom visits were owed. And, of course, the management of the estates is a constant concern - "

"Did you think of me at all?" Christine asked. "Even once? Since you left me that day?"

" _Left_ you, I..." A muscle worked in Philippe's jaw; they were turning around. Going back in the direction from whence they'd come. Back to the bistro. "I never took you for a jealous type."

"I'm not jealous," Christine replied, simply and honestly. "I'm _not_ , Philippe, but...I think we want different things. We're both different to what we were when we were children."

"You don't wish to sing at the Opera?" he asked, utterly missing the point. "Because that might well be your fate if you do not find an advocate. If I am your patron...that goes _far_ , Christine. Even though Gerard is no longer the manager, I still donate considerable sums to the Opera's coffers, our family has had a private box since the Garnier was opened. I assure you if you think that you might find a greater patron than I, you're very much mistaken."

Indignation flashed within her, making her blush bright red, visible even under the streetlights. Philippe stiffened beside her, his suspicions seemingly confirmed by her looks. It was not entirely unfair of him to suppose so, for indeed, her affections _were_ engaged elsewhere...just not in the manner he suspected that they were.

"That isn't...you're not listening to me, Philippe," she sighed, tangling her fingers together. "I never sought you to be my _patron_. I only ever looked upon you as my _friend_. And I thought a friend would pay me more mind. That's all. I might've...anything at all might've happened to me. I might not have arrived at all or else been turned away - "

"You would _never_ have been turned away," Philippe pronounced, like a judge from a bench. "My name - "

"Your name does very well for _you_ , Philippe, since you're the one who bears it," Christine interrupted him, tired. Tired of the conversation, of Philippe, of the whole night. "It is less successful when applied for others who don't have as much. Think, Philippe, of all the other girls you've recommended to the Opera, how many of them have gone _far_?"

Silence. Either she'd offended him or stumped him and at this point she did not care which it was. She'd rather the haunted wailing of the Opera house to this distance and misunderstanding.

"They...I'll not deny that I have lived," he said crisply. "Nor will I apologize for having done so. But...you're _different_ , Christine. You've always been different. That summer at my aunt's chateau...it was - believe me when I say it was the _happiest_ I have ever been in the whole of my life."

No longer was he smiling. Philippe was looking at her with utter earnestness and attention, but it was not he who she wished to be with. Not that night. And probably not ever. It was as she said, they were just too different from one another. She did not fit into his life. Nor he in hers.

"I will always cherish those memories," she replied tenderly, slipping his coat from her shoulders. The cold did not seem as biting now. "And I will always carry fondness for you in my heart and wish you well. I hope that someday you are just as happy as you were that summer. Happier, even! But whatever and wherever you find that happiness...I do not think you will find it with me."

"You don't know that," Philippe said, swallowing hard. "You're throwing away a great opportunity."

"I don't believe I am," Christine replied, tucking up her skirts and letting herself down from the chaise. Philippe motioned to help her down, but she waved him off. The carriage ride had ruined her careful hairstyle and Philippe's coat had crushed the silk flowers of her gown, but she wasn't to fussed about it; it was only borrowed, after all. "Good-night, Philippe. I wish you well. And...I'm sure I'll see you again. At the Opera, maybe."

He stared at her, seemingly not knowing what to do. It occurred to Christine that this might be the first time in a long while that he'd not gotten his way. 

It was her turn to smile; a soft, sad smile which went unreturned. 

No matter. She squared her shoulders, picked up the skirt on her gown and walked with resolute strides back toward the Opera. It was a bright night; the moon lighted her way.


	13. Telling Tales

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning for** : **Blood and descriptions of physical injury and panic attacks.**

Dawn arrived outside the Paris Opera house with a rosy glow. Inside the Opera it was announced with a scream and a crack - the sound of a spine, broken, snapping back into place. Consciousness came to Erik all at once and with a befuddling confusion. It felt as though every bone in his body had been broken and was re-knitting itself in white-hot flashes of pain. He could not help crying out in distress, though his throat was raw and dry. Every inhale of breath he took stung as though the air itself was on fire.

"Oh my God."

Gerard. Erik could smell him in the firey air and for a brief second he was confused and thought he must be home, in their apartment...but why should it hurt so much? It never hurt this much when he was home.

"Come out, you need to...I can't very well carry you. Erik, can you hear me? Erik!"

Dazed and in pain, Erik managed to rouse himself enough to get up on his hands and knees. Glass crunched under his hands, dozens of lacerations on his palms, the tops of his feet dragging upon the floor. Gerard made a sound of distress and Erik flinched away. No doubt he was disgusted by him, naked and grotesque. The world around him pitched and swam when he opened his eyes so he kept them closed, head bowed. 

Something warm and heavy fell over his shoulders. His dressing gown. Gerard had been in his house. They were in the Opera, but _where?_

"Here - Erik, will you look at me?"

A hand cupped his chin - the first time Gerard had willingly touched him in ages. Gerard's face swam into view. His skin was ashen and there were bags under his eyes that showed he'd not slept and Erik could smell perfume, cigars, wine on Gerard's evening clothes. Not slept and not changed his suit from the night previous. What was he doing here? Had he...had he _killed_ again?

"Is anyone hurt?" Erik asked. HIs voice came out as a rough wheeze, a remnant of breathing in that awful, contaminated air.

"No. No one," Gerard replied at once, though the catch in his voice made it sound as though that was a lie. Gerard's grip shifted to touch Erik's arm. "Here, we must get you below - let me help you up. Lean on me - yes, that's fine, I'll be right back."

Erik fell back on his haunches and covered himself in his robe as Gerard passed him by, keys jangling. He was too ill and exhausted and in pain to think what it meant. That Gerard was with him, that he was locking a door. Once Erik was decently covered, Gerard was back, hands under his elbows, helping him get to his feet. 

Erik tried not to lean too much upon Gerard's shoulders, but he couldn't help it. Every step hurt - why was it so bad, why did it hurt so much, where had he been?

There were no answers. Just plodding along, their shuffling steps punctuated by occasional murmurings of encouragement from Gerard. "One more step. Just a bit further. Use the rail. That's right. There's a good boy."

Gerard guided him all the way back to his bed, but forbade him from lying down. He left him for a few minutes and returned with a bowl from the kitchen and a pair of tweezers. And a knife. 

"Take that off," Gerard nodded toward the robe. "There's...you've got glass in your back. I need to remove it before the wounds close over it. "

Erik shrugged out of the robe, feeling the drag of fabric against his wounds. Silently, but for the plink-plink of glass shards in the bowl, Gerard patiently removed each piece of glass. Glass. Where was there such an abundance of glass in the Opera?

Clarity was slow to dawn as Erik tried to remember what had become of him the night before. He had followed Christine to the bistro - it was not a long walk, but she was a young woman alone and he worried about her. The sights and sounds of the street were nearly unbearable, it was almost impossible to hide himself in the evening twilight. He meant to go well ahead of the moon rising, but then she started to sing the wooing song he loved so much. It had been almost impossible to tear himself away, but the pain was so intense and he could almost feel his bones cracking and flesh tearing. He ran back to the Opera as fast as he could. He thought he made it in time, but...he truly did not remember.

Head bowed again Erik tensed and waited for the chastisement that he was sure would come. If Gerard was here, surely there must be some reason. He might have been seen. He might have hurt someone. But if he had, Gerard would not be here, wordlessly healing him. Gerard surely would have made use of the gun...

But for the first time in a long time, Erik could not detect it on his person. 

Every once in a while, Gerard would run his fingertips over Erik's back, pause, then remove the knife and cut out glass that was embedded in the flesh. Erik tried to grit his teeth - fangs still - and not cry out against the pain. This tender care was far more than he deserved. It was as he'd told Christine: Gerard was a saint.

To ignore the pain, he thought of her. He could not see her inside the bistro, but he heard her - and that was most important, he'd heard _only_ her. The rest of the room was speechless and quiet - an almost unheard of event. He might have smiled to think of it, did it not hurt so much. 

Gerard rubbed some medicine into his remaining wounds and sat back with a sigh. "That'll have to do. The rest will take care of itself. Try to lie on your stomach."

It was too easy to oblige. Darkness was creeping in the edge of his vision. Rather than sleeping after the full moon, this time he fainted. 

Erik flickered in and out of consciousness. At one point he was aware that Gerard had put a blanket over him. At another, that he felt Gerard's hand upon his brow and the back of his neck.

"My mask?" he asked weakly. 

"I've got it," Gerard replied steadily. "Don't worry. Sleep, Erik. Just sleep."

Then he said something that Erik must have imagined. He thought he heard Gerard say, _I'm so sorry_. But that could not be - whatever did Gerard have to be sorry about?

At one point Gerard woke him up, shaking his shoulder coaxing him into lying upon his back. It still hurt to do so and Erik let out a little hiss of pain between his teeth. He fixed him something to eat - a very hearty oat porridge that Gerard said was his mother's recipe. He used to make it often for him after the full moon and he'd remembered Erik's preferences for there was a distinct taste of cinnamon in it and a great deal of butter. 

"Thank you," Erik said, at least raising his eyes to Gerard's face. "For being so kind to me."

Gerard said nothing, his face still and closed. Erik's stomach knotted unpleasantly; doubtless Gerard would prefer not to perform these duties at all. His thanks was nothing in the face of the sacrifices Gerard made for him over and over again.

Duties performed, he thought Gerard would go, then, but he was surprised when he came back, a book in hand.

"Would you...like me to read to you? While you rest?" Gerard almost smiled and shrugged self-consciously. "It has been a while."

Years. Years since anyone had stayed with him in the aftermath of the full moon. Erik was deeply, deeply touched that he would do so.

Although he was struggling to keep his eyes open, he nodded and said, "Please."

Gerard sat upon the edge of the bed and picked up the book - Tennyson. Erik had a weakness for English poetry that Gerard had not forgotten. 

"Come into the garden, Maud," Gerard began. His reading was steady and clear, if not impassioned. The perfect thing to fall asleep to. "For the black bat, Night, has flown. Come into the garden, Maud. I am here at the gate, alone..."

Erik's eyes closed and for a while he floated in the ether between awake and asleep, Gerard's reading painting a picture in his mind. A garden. The Tuileries. Christine wanted to go. Erik envisioned them together in the sunlight. Perhaps he would take her hand. They would walk and admire the sights and no one would pay them mind. She would point out the pond and tease him about having once fallen carelessly in. They would laugh together about it...

Eventually, daydreams gave way to stolid sleep. And the next time Erik opened his eyes, Gerard was gone, though his scent lingered about the place and the book of poems was sat upon a table next to the bed. Beside the book, Gerard left him his mask.

His back still stung slightly, prompting Erik to shuffle to the leaded mirror he used for dressing. His uncovered face stared back at him, as pale beneath the scars as Gerard's had been when he found him that morning. Erik loosed his robe again and turned away, glancing over his shoulder at his back.

The spine was still slightly curved, the muscles bulky and swollen as they were for a day or two after the full moon set. But upon his skin were shiny burns, slow to heal, like the scars that ringed his wrists. Silver burns. That didn't make any sense. One of the reasons Gerard and he thought the Opera was the best place for him, especially during the full moon, were the number of silver-backed mirrors about the place, in the dressing rooms and dancer's rehearsal spaces. Erik could only _just_ bear it, but the wolf would shy away from the world above. Held in place by a barrier of glass. 

A shiver wracked his frame, but not from cold. It was fear, a primal, fear of nights passed with no memory of the events. Covering himself again, Erik turned away from the glass, feeling his heartbeat pick up a cold sweat bead on his brow. 

"Stop, stop," he muttered to himself. "Don't think of it. Don't think of it..."

But it was no use. He had no distraction - his hands were useless for playing and his throat still hurt from screaming and inhaling silver-scented air. Erik sat upon the stone floor, back against the wall, ruined face in claw-like hands and dry-heaved and wept his anguish out all alone. 

The panic came over him in waves. The terror that always lurked in the back of his mind. What _happened_? What _was_ he? Every month it got worse and worse and worse. He'd read fairy stories and folktales, but none seemed to truly capture what he was, what he went through. And he had no way of knowing if things would progress. In his teen years his body changed to become more and more frightening when the moon was waning and waxing. Would it happen again? Would he transform on nights without a moon someday? Would he devolve more and more until there was nothing left of _him_ , only a mindless animal, bent toward death?

Or was he already the animal? A monster, clinging to a semblance of humanity that was no longer his to claim.

_"Erik! Erik!"_

It took him a while to lift his head and listen. At first he thought it was his addled mind, playing tricks. But no. Christine was calling to him. And she was far, _far_ too close.

At first he thought she was upon his doorstep, but that was his hearing, still sensitive, misleading him. As he listened to her calling to him, he realized she was still beyond the lake. 

Erik rose and stumbled about, thinking only to dress and cover himself. The clothes he had worn the night before were gone - likely destroyed in the transformation for he hadn't had time to get undressed. Fortunately he had some other everyday clothes, they fitted badly, as all his clothes did immediately before and after the full moon, but at least his body was hidden. He tied the mask on and went out barefoot. Erik did not trust himself in the boat and instead waded into the water directly. It soaked him to the waist, icy-cold and foul-smelling, but he braved it for Christine's sake. She shouldn't wander belowstairs in the dark. She might fall or get lost and no one would know to go looking for her until it was too late. 

He found her by sound and scent...and not only _her_ scent. A gentleman's cologne lingered on her skin and Erik felt a hot flash of anxious jealousy.

Stupid. _Stupid!_ Of course a gentleman might wish to press close to her, they might have only danced together! There was always a good deal of dancing at the bistro, he remembered from repeatedly spying from the street. He could never go in. Never come close to anyone in such a manner. _She_ could. He had to be happy for her. A life in the light was not possible for him, but it was for her. 

His was a life scarcely worth living. But if he could help another to live a good life, a fulfilling life, he had to be satisfied with that. Truly, it was more than he'd thought possible in those dark days after Gerard left the Opera and Erik truly was left with nothing but his own monstrousness, alone in the dark.

"Erik!" Christine exclaimed. Then laughed. Her face broke out into a smile when she saw him, waist-deep in the water. "I'd have thought the famous Opera lake was deeper than that."

Despite the pain in his body and the misery in his head, Erik chanced a smile back - he was still a good many feet away from her and trusted she could not see his teeth. Her smiling always made him want to smile. 

"Well, it's not really a lake," he pointed out. "Just a large cistern."

The smile vanished and her brow creased in concern. "Your voice! Are you alright?"

His speaking voice was still hoarse. Erik cleared his throat, but it did not make a difference. "I...have a...slight headcold."

It was a lie. And a bad one, his voice was halting and there was a question mark at the end of the sentence. He hadn't had a cold since he was seven years old. Did headcolds result in scratchy throats?

Christine did not believe him. She cocked her head to the side and frowned, almost in disappointment. Then she smiled sadly and seemed to tell him through her looks and her tone of voice that although she knew he wasn't telling her the truth, she was willing to play along with him. 

"I hope you feel better soon," she replied, though she seemed sincere. "Won't you come closer? It can't be comfortable in the water. I want to tell you about last night!"

"Oh, no," Erik shook his head, walking backward in the water, feet skidding upon the cold and slimy stones beneath; he almost fell in, but righted himself. That would be the least of his humiliations this day. "I...erm. I don't want you to catch it."

"I'm sure you don't have anything catching," she replied quickly. Christine took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She looked him directly in the eye and continued. "I think...I _know_ that you...have your...that there are things about yourself you like to keep private. Like your - your face. And that's your right."

_But I can't abide your secrets and lies. I never want to see you again. I have found better company in the world above. Thank you for everything, Erik. But I must tell you good-bye._

"I won't ask you to show me your face," she said, the Christine who was speaking to him very different from the Christine in Erik's head. "In fact I won't...ask you to tell me anything about yourself that you don't wish to share. I hope one day you will tell me more. But, please...sit by me. And let me tell you about my evening."

Christine sat down upon the stone, moving a lantern she'd brought to guide her descent, and patted the spot next to her invitingly.

"Christine..." Erik began, aching to join her, but knowing he should not, that he should _never_... "I'm not - I _can't_. My hands, my - "

"I won't ask!" she said, a little more vehemently this time. "I swear. I'll do all the talking! Until I'm as hoarse as you."

She sat with her hands folded in her lap and a look of expectation upon her face. Erik couldn't understand. She genuinely seemed to mean every word she said. Genuinely seemed to wish for his company. Despite the fact that other men - real men - had been close to her the night before. Despite his monstrousness. 

"I don't understand," he said with despairing honesty in his broken voice. "I don't understand why you want...anything to do with me."

Tears filled Christine's eyes.

"I know," she said, nodding. "I know you don't. But...I need you to trust that I do want to be with you. And come and sit."

 _I need you to trust._ Erik was unused to this, trusting and being trusted. But Christine said she needed something of him. And all he could do was obey.

He waded through the water and hauled himself up beside her, legs dangling, water pooling around him. Christine did not seem to mind. She looked up at him and smiled as if she was receiving a great treat. She moved the lantern back a bit so that the water did not interfere with its function. The flickering shadows made her hair look like spun gold.

"I was very nervous when I got there," she began. "And I nearly didn't go in. I wish I could say that I was brave and shored myself up, but it was only that it was such a cold night last night that it was go inside or freeze! And I didn't want to freeze, so I went in. How long have they been using that purple bag to determine the order of the singing? It looked like it was about fifty years old! I suppose it doesn't matter, but I put my name in and I thought I would sit alone all night, but I saw an old friend..."


	14. Sing for Me

"I found him very much changed - of course it has been ten years...but I found I did not wish to renew the acquaintance."

Christine felt it was very important to communicate to Erik that she had rebuffed Philippe. Irrational, given that the one time in their acquaintance she had wished most ardently to kiss him he had moved away from her. It was entirely possible (even probable) that he was not interested in her as more than a student and friend, but regardless she had a most urgent desire to inform him of the fact that her affections were not engaged in that area.

She could not deny that she loved him. Christine had loved very few people in her life, but she knew the feeling enough to name it. Erik was very dear to her, she thought of him when they were not together, hoping he was contented and well. When they were together she wanted to make him smile and laugh, she wanted him to look forward to seeing her as much as she did him. 

It was love that drove her below-ground, in the end. When she arrived back at the Opera, slipping in a side entrance with a key gifted to her by Jean-Claude in secret she heard the most terrible sounds. Even after dawn broke, she could hear a man screaming - no wonder his voice was so hoarse when he spoke! It was the sound of agony and she could not bear the suspense of waiting to see him in the three days he spent away from her after the full moon. She abandoned her finery, lit a lantern and, after the Opera was closed up tight threw all caution to the wind and descended into the cellars.

It was eerily quiet, with the exception of occasional scurrying from the mice (she hoped they were mice only and not rats) that lived in the walls. They probably came up from the sewers; Christine tried to remind herself that this had been their home before the opera house was plunked on top of them. The thought was only minimally consoling; she did not like to think about rats and crawling things, they made her skin crawl.

Christine could bear crawling skin, but not the anxious feeling that twisted her guts and made her headache when she thought of Erik suffering all alone. It sounded as though he was being wrenched apart upon some medieval torture device; was there no way to ease his pain? None of the legends she knew provided any guidance in this regard. They were nearly all told from the perspective of potential victims of the creatures at their hearts, and so were meant to teach a lesson or warn the hearer. Not instruct one in the caring and keeping of werewolves. 

That made up Christine's mind about another matter: she cared about Erik. And she would very much like to keep him as well. Therefore she sternly gave herself a talking to as she slowly made her way into the darkness below the opera, trying not to lose her way or her footing and trying to avoid vermin. Christine swore to herself that she would not press him nor goad him into revealing more of himself than he felt comfortable. 

Truly, she felt a little guilty for having guessed at so much of what he sought to hide. The argument might have been made that it was he who ought to feel ashamed for lying by omission and consciously seeking to conceal an element of his nature, but Christine felt such an argument lacked merit. _What_ Erik was mattered so much less than _who_ Erik was and who he was consumed her attention. Despite what his body looked like once a month, he promised that he would never hurt her and he kept that promise. In every way he was a gentleman, paying her flattering attention, aiding the development of her voice, and proving himself time and again to be the most amiable, witty, musical... _wonderful_ person that she had ever met. 

Christine had loved very few people in her life, but she had traveled much and met a good many people. Erik was therefore a member of a very elite group.

Her feelings she kept to herself; she only told him that she would recount her evening and that was exactly what she did as he sat, eyes trained on her as though he was drinking her in. Erik always looked at her so strangely, so intently, as though she was a great work of art he was studying in a city he was only visiting and might never see again. It was that peculiar air he had about him which compelled her so to reassure him that the Comte did not have her favor; that way he might understand without her telling him things he might not be prepared to hear, that she was not going to go away from him.

It broke her heart neatly in two to hear the despairing incomprehension in his voice when he expressed that he did not know why she wanted him close to her. Certainly she had once found him frightening. It was true that, as he came closer she saw his shape was distorted and he seemed to loom larger than ever, but she was unafraid. Knowing him now as she did, it was almost embarrassing to think back on her former fear. She suspected the sensation was akin to that of someone who was afraid to sleep alone in their own bedroom as a child for fear of the shadows. Looking back, it was obvious that there was nothing there that could have harmed them.

So it was with Erik. Despite his glowing eyes, his size, the thick claws on the ends of his fingers (no wonder he had been unable to play the piano!), she wasn't afraid of him at all. She would have taken his hands to prove it, if he was not so stiff and still. She suspected that any move she might make to touch him would disconcert him so that he would wind up topping into the water. 

Christine did not touch, but she talked. Prating on and on, detailing the night, paying especial attention to the reception to her singing; although no contract had been signed, when Monsieur Choletti passed her in the hall that day, he paused and muttered under his breath that he must get her signed up. 

"That's a very good sign," Erik said cautiously, interjecting for the first time in her narrative. "Though I wish he was more definite about it. I'll have to...I'd very much like to see the contract prior to your signing it. But I fear they would rescind the offer if you expressed any hesitation."

"A day's delay isn't unreasonable, I don't think?" Christine replied. "But then I've very little experience with formal business matters."

"No, you're right it isn't - it _shouldn't_ be," Erik amended with a great gusty sigh. "However I do not think it is unfair of me to say that I don't trust the current management farther than I can throw them."

"On the contrary," Christine replied pertly, "I think you're being overly generous, for I've no doubt you could throw Monsieur Choletti very far indeed - oh! I nearly forgot to mention, I met Monsieur Carriere last evening. On that score as well I think you've been too kind. You called him saintly, but I didn't see any sign of a halo."

At once she realized she'd said something wrong. Erik's gaze slide away from her face and he stared out at the water. His jaw worked as if he would speak, but he just shook his head, evidently unable to find the words. Erik's eyes no longer glowed yellow, but were green again. Just like Monsieur Carriere's.

Christine could not help herself giving a fidgety wiggle as she physically held herself back from asking who they were to one another. _If he is going to trust you, you must prove yourself trustworthy. Just as he proved himself trustworthy to you._

"I can see why the company enjoys the bistro so much," Christine said, seeing Erik's shoulders slump in relief that she was not going to press him. "It was enjoyable, I wish I was acquainted with more of them."

"You will be," Erik said, still gazing out at the water. His voice was _so_ sad. "Once you get your contract and start working with them, they'll love you."

Christine sat up on her knees and faced Erik directly. "Well, to be sure, I'd like to know some of them rather better...but I don't know that I'll love them back. Some of them are abominably rude to their laundresses which is a character flaw I cannot overlook. Pierre is very kind, I might be able to love Pierre."

That got a brief laugh out of Erik and he nodded, turning his head to look at her again. "Pierre is uniformly delightful; everyone loves Pierre. If he's not cast as Mephisto in _Faust_ , it'll be a crime."

"I don't think Madame Carlotta has her eye on Mephisto, so his role is probably ensured," Christine grinned widely up at Erik, prompting another chuckle from him. His voice sounded a little clearer now than it had when he first spoke and she made bold to ask him something. "Erik...if I promise to practice my scales _every_ time I sing, will you do me a favor?"

"No."

Christine rocked back, stung, until Erik continued in the same breath.

"I'll grant you a favor regardless of what you _do_...though scales are very important and I would prefer that you endeavor to do a proper warm-up before singing anything challenging - ah. But, of course if I can ever do anything for you I will. What is it you wish?"

Relieved, Christine smiled up at him in what she hoped was a coaxing, fetching manner. "I would like to hear you sing someday. Not this evening, since you have a sore throat, but when you're feeling better. Please?"

Erik hesitated, mechanically lifting his had to his throat, then dropping it, curling his fingers toward his palm to hide them from her gaze.

"Alright," he replied uncertainly. "Not tonight...but soon. If you'd like. Did...you call out to me only to ask me that?"

Here there was a crossroads. She could agree, and thus close the door on further conversation about his nature...or she could leave the door open. Ajar, anyway. Christine knew she must tread carefully ahead.

"I was worried about you," she said simply. "I could hear...noises from down here. Early this morning. It sounded like you were hurting and I wanted to see you to know that you were alright."

Silence. Horrible, heavy silence. Erik's face was utterly still. His eyes distant. 

_I've said the wrong thing. I've said too much and driven him away. He'll be angry and he'll go. I've ruined it._

"You shouldn't worry about that," he said, his voice very slow and deliberate. It sounded almost entirely restored to its usual resonant beauty. "Whatever you hear...I'm always perfectly well. In the end."

Christine very much doubted it. He stayed away from her for days and why? She concluded that he was either ill or ashamed and neither was to her liking. 

"May I...would you mind very much if I held you, for a minute?" she asked, limply extending her arms. Her heartbeat pick up, an anxious anticipation of rejection. Finding the right balance between being bold enough to pursue what she wanted while being circumspect enough to respect Erik's desire not to be prodded was like walking a tightrope. "I...I was worried."

It was one emotion among many, but it would have to do. Until she thought he was capable of hearing more. 

The look in his eyes was one of utter disbelief.

"If I wasn't still soaked, I would think I was dreaming," Erik's tone was light, but his voice was scarcely above a whisper. 

"Is that a yes?" Christine asked, cocking her head to the side, hair falling in front of her face, hopefully masking her nerves. Erik swallowed, then nodded. It was all the invitation Christine needed. 

On her knees, she was able to embrace him around the neck. This time, Erik did not stand still and stiff like a tree. He tentatively raised one hand, fingers splayed, and gently rested it upon the small of her back. She felt the cold, hard nose of the mask press lightly into her neck. Steadily, he breathed in her ear and she nuzzled the side of his head, nose brushing against his soft hair. She almost kissed him, just a little peck on the side of his head, but held herself back. She'd only asked if he would let her hold him, not if he would let her kiss him. 

Erik was warm and solid in her arms. He'd recently had a bath, she could smell a clean, soapy smell from his hair. Unlike Philippe's cologne it wasn't cloying and she wouldn't mind carrying the faint aroma of him on her skin all day. 

A dampness dripped onto her collar and she felt him briefly tremble in her arms. Christine pulled away and felt tears spring to her eyes to correspond with those in Erik's. She did not have to ask him what was wrong. He told her on his own.

"I'm sorry," he said, daubing at his eyes behind the holes in the mask with the edge of his sleeve. "It's only...it's been a very, very long time. Thank you."

"You don't need to thank me," Christine replied softly, wiping at a tear that ran down her cheek. "I wanted to...I know you don't understand _why_ , but can you trust that I'm telling you the truth when I say I want you near?" 

Tears still in his eyes, Erik swallowed hard and said, "I can try."

That was enough for now. And a few days later he trusted her with something else. 

Monsieur Choletti drew up her contract to sing in the chorus of the Opera. Eagerly, she signed it (taking Erik's advice she read it twice, and nothing stuck out at her as being too lacking) a handshake later and it seemed her fate was sealed. 

"You're moving up in the world," Monsieur Choletti chuckled. His wife was nowhere to be seen; Christine thought nothing of it at the time. 

It was ironic; she was moving up, but only wanted to be down below, sharing her success with Erik. They met in their regular rehearsal room, she ran in, feet hardly touching the floor, but she skidded to a stop. He was sitting at the piano, playing a simple melody and it was _not_ scales for her to run. Her breath caught and she brought her hands to her mouth in undisguised delight for she knew he was going to sing for her.

Erik looked up at her, a small smile playing at his mouth. His teeth were back to their usual state and his hands were restored enough to play. 

"I must tell you," he said in his glorious voice, "that I was quite disappointed with myself when I was fourteen. I _wanted_ to be a tenor, but alas that was not to be. Baritones are nearly always villains, you see, or else seeking revenge. I do quite _like_ this song, if divorces it from the action of the opera."

The notes were light, merry, the tune simple and repetitive. Christine was unfamiliar with the song and asked, hands clasped under her chin like a child begging for a sweet, what opera it was from. 

" _Don Giovanni_ ," Erik replied. "More Italian for you to learn. But! The score is beautiful even if _he_ is quite a wretched figure, in the end. Anyway, you did say you wanted to hear me sing - "

"I _did_ ," Christine said very resolutely. "And you're being an awfully long time about it."

Erik nodded deeply, accepting her statement as true. He slowed his playing, took a breath, and began to sing.

"Oh, come to the window, beloved;  
Oh, come and dispel my sorrow.  
If you refuse me some solace,  
Before your dear eyes I will die.  
  
Your lips are sweeter than honey,  
Your heart is sweetness itself;  
Then be not cruel, my angel,  
I beg for one glance, my beloved!"

Christine's hands rose to cover her mouth again as she stifled a gasp. Erik's voice was the most _incredible_ sound she had ever heard; she swore she could feel it reverberating in her own chest. There so much depth and richness, just like his speaking voice, but with an incredible power, finely wielded and carefully controlled. And the feelings he stirred in her! There was such an aching longing as he sang, hope and sadness intermingled in beautiful, beautiful sound. It was as he said to her once; he was not merely a musician, he _was_ music itself.

The last note faded to nothing, only the piano resolving the phrase. Erik folded his hands in his lap, looking over at her through the eyeholes of the mask. "Well? I...hope you aren't disappointed."

Christine swallowed hard and composed herself. In spite of her best efforts, her voice shook. "I'll never want to sing again. I only want to listen to you."

Erik gave a short bark of laughter, "Oh, come on now, be serious."

"I am serious!" she insisted, coming to his side. "Your voice - it's _monstrously_ unfair you've kept it from me! That first night you ought to have sung to me. Serenaded me. I would have agreed to anything you wished."

If Erik were another kind of man - a kind of man she would not have liked half so well as she liked him - he would have made some arch comment. Turned her words into some kind of repartee, designed to show how very clever he was, to impress and amuse her. Erik already impressed and amused her in turn and did not even have to try.

"I'm sorry to have kept so much from you," he said, with the pained and brutal honesty that touched her heart and made it ache. "You're right, it was unfair. _Monstrously_ unfair."

She didn't like the way he said, 'monstrous,' as though it was an oath or a sinful thing. 

Stretching out one hand she trailed her fingers up until they gently touched his jaw; Erik tensed, looking at her warily, but she only tugged gently at his face, feeling the rough scarred flesh of his chin and neck under her fingers. She kept her touch on his skin only and away from his mask. 

"I forgive you," she said seriously. Then her mouth quirked in mischief. "So long as you sing to me every time we meet."

The muscles under his warm skin shifted and he smiled, "That I can very easy do. If it would please you."

The quirk of her lips spread into a wide smile. "It would."

Christine dropped her hand, but Erik caught it in one of his. With tantalizing slowness he lifted it again. Her small hand merely rested in his palm, so that she might snatch it away at any time. She did not move and Erik made bold to bring her hand to his mouth and press a sweet kiss to the back of her hand. 


	15. Not That Sort of Story

It was incredible to Erik that after a night of such lingering pain and fear that he would be granted weeks of bliss. For was it anything less than a miracle, a wonderful quirk of Fate, a smile from God Himself that Christine told him she wished to be near him? That she spoke so kindly of his singing? That she held him, permitted him to hold in her return, and let him press his unworthy lips to the soft skin of her hand. That she smiled after he did so and her cheeks flushed rosy-red?

Erik would have thought he was dreaming, but his dreams were rarely so sweet as this. 

It was only as they became physically closer that Erik recognized the chasms, yet unplumbed, that remained between them. He had eagerly soaked up every piece of information Christine told him about herself, her father, her past, her hopes, her dreams, and of course, he let her sing for him for hours, moulding her voice into the finely-tuned instrument that he knew she was capable of controlling. 

But what of him? She declared she would not press and, indeed, she had every right to ask whatever questions she wished. He begged her for the minutiae of every one of her remembered experiences, but he had told her hardly anything of himself. 

_Why should I?_ he would have answered, had the question been asked of him a few weeks before. He would not have said so cruelly or dismissively, but matter-of-factly. 

Erik had not supposed it would have mettered. He too would soon be one of her memories, like her father's violin playing, her happy summer when the Comte was yet a Vicomte, the smell and sights of a bonfire curling its flames high into the air. He flattered himself that she might remember him as being a polite, effective teacher. He hoped she would carry a kernel of gratitude for him in her heart as she enjoyed her inevitable successes. And perhaps, with time, the memory of him would dim, the monstrous bits be chiseled away by distance and the years. If there was one piece of him he thought she might remember fondly, it ought to be his eyes. He had Gerard's eyes and he remembered his mother's gladness over that; she always said they were beautiful. 

That was before the bistro. Before she held him when he was almost at his most monstrous, before she bid him come near and looked at him and smiled at him with evident happiness and relief.

No one had looked at him like that. Not in years and years. Not since his mother died. Not since Gerard began to regard him less as a son and more as a dangerous burden.

Christine looked at him, but did not seem to _see_ him as a monster, a dangerous freak of nature. She let him kiss her hand! He marveled over that for hours. No one let him kiss them before, not since he had been a small child. He thought at the time he should have asked, made clear what he was doing, but words failed him. Even so, she might have pulled her hand away at any time, but she did not. She permitted this indulgence and then smiled and blushed like she was pleased.

It took all of Erik's self-control to remain as he was and not leap and shout for joy. She could not have known - she who had known a father's constant affection and the love-making of an aristocrat - what it meant to him to be allowed such a liberty. For most of his life, he had been deliberately kept away from people, it was much more natural to him to conceal himself when he sensed another drawing near and to keep his distance when in the presence of those few who knew of his existence. 

Erik knew what it was to be feared, to be despised, to be unwanted. He was far less familiar with what it was to be sought after; he only hoped he did not reveal his hopelessness too baldly and put her off. 

Christine stated that she would not _ask_ , but it did not follow that she did not want to be _told_. She had entrusted so much of herself to his care, was it not right that he extend her the same trust?

Anyway, he ruefully admitted to himself, all his attempts at disguise and deception had not done him any good. She said she did not like him in evening clothes, so he dressed simply to please her. She said she wanted him near when he wished to keep her at a distance where she could not see his worst traits. She said she heard sounds of pain and distress from the cellars and, rather than fleeing at once, she instead went to him. And held him. Because she was worried.

After a lifetime of hiding, it was more difficult than Erik imagined to come into the light. He would resolve to say something, reveal something, and then she would smile at him or praise him and he lost his nerve. 

Doubt was his constant companion, even more faithful than Christine. It was with him always and she only in the evenings, constantly causing him to second-guess himself, whispering his worst fears in his mind. 

_She says she wants to know, but does she really? She says she cares, but will she always? When she truly learns what you are? What you've done? How can anyone bear it, let alone a good soul like her. Your own father can scarcely stand the sight of you. Why expect from her what you cannot receive from him?_

Expect was perhaps too strong a word; hope was more fitting. Erik expected nothing, but he hoped for a great deal. That he loved her had been a fact held in his heart for ages, but only recently admitted to himself. It was laughable how soon he fell into it. Erik loved her voice the first time he heard it and it took only a few days of conversation and companionship for Christine to establish herself as the lodestar in his sky. It was foolish, his resolution that he must ensure her success quickly that losing her might sting less; it would be the worst agony of his life were he to lose her now.

Thus he established a new routine for them; as Christine was soon to begin rehearsals for _Faust_ , he did not want to tax her voice overmuch with lessons. And so he proposed (tentatively, all the while bracing for her to say no), that they spend Sundays together, the Opera being closed and its staff in their own homes. Not as student and teacher, but as friends. If they sang, it would only be because they wanted to (and he would not even insist upon a thorough warm-up). 

Naturally, their ramblings were confined to the walls of the Opera house, but there were very many places Christine had not yet been and she expressed curiosity about them, including the library. 

"That's a splendid idea!" he enthused when she suggested it as their first Sunday get-together location. "There are pronunciation guides, if you wanted to practice your Italian - "

Then she laughed at him and he, chagrined, walked back his comments about pronunciation guides.

Christine was angelically understanding. She took his hand and laced their fingers together as best she could, his hands engulfing hers entirely.

"Sundays are not for lessons," she reminded him, but not sternly. There was a sparkle in her eyes as she added, "Sundays are for _us_."

Erik had never been part of an 'us,' before and found the prospect to be a wonderful novelty.

The library, with its high-ceilings, built-in bookshelves and smell of paper was like an oasis of calm in the hubbub of the opera house, Erik had always been very fond of this room. Christine was decidedly less taken with it. She walked ahead of him and peeped around the doorways of the rooms that made up this section of the building. Then she turned back to him and shrugged.

"It's emptier than I thought it would be," she said, voice echoing slightly. 

"Empty? Not at all," Erik gestured to the librettos, bound reams of sheet music, and books that lined the shelves. "There are thousands of worlds here, you just have to pull them off the shelf and discover them."

Christine wasn't looking at the shelves, she was looking at him with an expression that he would term fond if he was being generous with himself. 

"I'm not much of a reader," she admitted. "I take it you are?"

That was an understatement. Books were Erik's greatest source of connection with the world and one way in which Gerard would indulge him without reservation, often coming home with two or three every week the final years that they had the same residence. 

"Oh, yes," he said, with a wistful sigh. "Books were all I had for a few years."

Good as her word, Christine did not press him. She smiled encouragingly at him and followed when he led her into the reading room.

The air inside the opera was almost as cold as the air outside so Erik bade Christine sit and then made bold to rummage behind the librarian's desk; the man always kept a blanket about for the winter months and Erik was not disappointed to find one, neatly folded, in a bottom drawer of his desk. He offered it to Christine who wrapped it around her legs and kept her shawl attached over her shoulders with a small pin. She was still wearing the ragged skirt and shirtwaist she'd come to the Opera with and he reminded himself to attempt to procure her something more suitable for rehearsals for she had not been given an advance on her new salary. 

Satisfied that she was warming up and comfortable, Erik did not himself sit, but leaned against a column near the window. It was _so_ difficult to speak of himself! He never imagined he would give an account of his history, even in part, to anyone. To think of a lifetime looming ahead of him, being unknown and ever more isolated as time passed was frightening, he knew he ought to be grateful to have someone who was willing to listen. This gratitude and knowledge did not, however, prevent him from feeling as though there was a barrier in his very soul, that seized his throat and made him want to flee the room. 

Still Christine sat, patient and waiting, for she seemed to sense that he wanted to say something. 

"There were...two years? Of my life when I was confined to five rooms," he said haltingly. It was a dark time. He was horribly depressed, able to leave the flat he shared with his father only at night and Gerard more than once begged him not to go too near the windows during the daylight hours. "I haven't always been...as you see me. Not so...frightening on first acquaintance. When I was a child, it was...not easy, but _easier_. To go among people. But by the time I was sixteen or seventeen, there were enough difficulties that I stopped going out at all. A child in a mask is an oddity and curiosity, a... _man_ , and quite a large, bestial-looking man in a mask is altogether different."

It was as close an admission to the truth of what he was as he'd ever come. He and Gerard did not speak in plain terms about what he was and what had happened to him. Euphemism had guided their tongues for years, 'the attack,' 'what had become of poor Maman,' 'their ordeal,' 'his troubles,' etc. 'Bestial' was closer to the truth, as close as he could come without actively wishing the floor would open into a dark abyss and swallow him whole. 

Confession was meant to be good for the soul, but Erik was not sure if he had one and, anyway, could feel something within him withering. It was true, he often felt a hollow despair, spending so much time alone, but the alternative, he remembered, was worse.

Erik squeezed his eyes shut, willing the memories away. He'd been hit by a brick once, when he'd been tired of hiding away and looking at the same walls all the time. It had been thrown by someone who was defending himself against the threat of a large, terrifying looking thing that dared to be out on the street. It hit him squarely in the back of the head. The bleeding stopped by the time he got home, but he'd been thoroughly shaken by the encounter. Erik had been seventeen at the time.

Christine's brow creased, her lips were pressed together, and her fingers were worrying the knotted fringe of her shawl. "Is that why you live in the opera?"

"Yes," he nodded. "Partly. It has more than five rooms and is a decided improvement. Even so, I bore it, not well at times, but I bore it because I had things to read. Plays, novels, travelogues, poetry. I attempted to read the encyclopedia once, I got as far as the h's before I gave it up as too dull. Then it was back to Keats, Blake, and Coleridge."

The pinched and worried expression on Christine's face eased slightly. "You like poetry?"

"Oh yes," Erik nodded, much more keen on the conversation now that the topic was landing more squarely upon books. "Especially English poets, they describe the out of doors so beautifully and with such detail...I might have been spending all my time in my bedroom or the sitting room, but in my mind I was out on the moors or at the seaside. Many days were also spent in King Arthur's court. I played music of course, but books broke up the day like nothing else, and my father kept me well supplied in those days."

"Your father?"

Bless her, Christine tried so hard to keep her voice light and tone careless, but he caught the note of burning curiosity in her voice. 

He had to shore himself up with a deep breath; even _before_ , he'd never admitted this aloud to a single living soul. When his parents took him to the Opera, he knew from a very young age that Papa was to be referred to as Monsieur Carriere and Maman was Tante Isabelle. As far as the company and the management were concerned, he was La Belladova's nephew, visiting from out of town. 

"My..." It seemed absolute blasphemy to say this aloud in the Opera. Even when Gerard's career and reputation at the Opera was no longer a concern. Even when no one was around to hear him. "Gerard Carriere is my father."

"I _knew_ it!"

Erik jumped a little, expecting neither the volume of Christine's reply, nor the reply itself. She clapped her hands over her mouth, wide-eyed, then lowered them enough to go on. "I mean...I didn't _know_ , I suspected. When I met him, I thought he looked familiar, then I realized he reminded me of you. I thought he was your brother, he's so young!"

He couldn't help himself: Erik laughed out loud. His own blaspheming aside, he could only imagine how horrified Gerard would be were he to find out that Christine thought they resembled one another. And then how delighted he might be to find that Christine thought they might be brothers.

"He is," Erik replied. "He _was_. Young, I mean. They both were."

Gerard was eighteen when he came to Paris. Erik knew something of his past, pieced together enough of the parts he avoided talking of to know that there was some sort of scandal in the little provincial town were he had been raised in as the eldest of five brothers. Erik suspected there had been a marriage - stupid and ill-advised given how young he was. But it would explain why his parents never wed.

And there was another rub. Christine knew he lived beyond the lake in the cellars. Knew there was something deeply unnatural about him. Compared to that, the admission of bastardy was hardly anything: it was the most commonplace wrong thing about him. And yet, saying so aloud seemed as much a shameful thing as his conception and birth had been to his parents. 

"They met at the Opera," he said. "He was a stagehand, newly come from the provinces, estranged from his parents. She was an orphan who became a member of the corps de ballet when she was a young girl. She thought he was handsome, he thought she was beautiful."

Christine had stopped fidgeting and was smiling softly up at him. With a sinking sensation, Erik suspected she was envisioning a love story. While he did not doubt that his parents loved one another, theirs was not that _sort_ of story.

"They were both ambitious," he continued. "She wanted to be prima ballerina, he wanted to rise to the rank of manager. Then I was born and rather stymied their plans."

He was born and his mother had to take time away from the Opera. He was born and his father had to conceal the nature of his relationship with both Erik and his mother. He was born and they raised him together as best they could and then one night he nagged and whinged that he wanted to go to the park...and they obliged.

"Erik?"

He had lapsed into silence, a long one judging by Christine's careful, questioning tone. She had pushed the blanket aside and was rising to come to him. The light had changed in the sky and was warm through the window on his left arm. Instinctively, Erik shifted away, recalling Gerard's old warnings: _Keep away from the windows, they'll be hell to pay if some passerby sees you and calls the gendarmerie. Or a zookeeper._

She reached up and tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, "Have you read every book in this library?"

Angel. She was an angel. A gift from God who had lost her way, probably meant to bless some sweet and worthy soul and instead stumbled upon a monster in its lair and gave it hope. Erik would be eternally grateful for the mix-up.

"Not every one," he admitted. "...but many of them. The theory books won't interest you, I fancy, but there are some quite interesting first editions, with notes and edited portions in the composer's own hand!"

Christine certainly did not find such things as fascinating as he did, but she indulged him, letting him prattle on, illuminating the process and meaning behind some of his favorite operas, until he took pity on her and said, "I'm sorry, you didn't want today to be a lesson."

She crooked her finger and bade him bend down which he did, wondering what she wanted to say quietly that she could not say aloud since they were alone. Christine got up on her toes and pressed a kiss to the cheek of his mask. 

Rocking back on her heels she said, "I was wrong. As it happens, I'm happy to learn anything you have to teach me. And...I want to thank you. I know that was difficult for you. I'm grateful that you trust me enough to share with me the things that you did."

 _Yes_ , Erik thought, a bit dazed by all that was passing between them and not able to grasp it. _A lost angel. I hope she never rights her steps._

"It..." he only just refrained from putting his hand to his left cheek in wonder. "I think is only difficult because I've never had anyone to speak to before."

It was a good thing he did not raise his hand for Christine took it in hers, brought it to her mouth and kissed his knuckles; it was a soft brush of her flesh against his, like touching the petals of a rose. He could imagine how it would feel if she had kissed his cheek and his mind supplied the phantom impression as she kept his hand in hers tucking it under her chin. Her fingers were so cold; he would have to determine a better way to heat her room and keep her warm, especially at night. The weather was on the cusp of turning bitter. 

"You have me now," she said, eyes shining with earnest tenderness. "I'm so glad you found me, Erik."

"Not as glad as I am," he replied, daring to reach out his right hand to touch her cheek, let his fingers briefly curl in her messy golden hair. "I mean that with all my heart."

Christine dropped his hand, but only that she might hold him again, embracing him around the middle and resting her head against his chest. This time he was prepared. He wrapped one arm around her back and stroked her hair with the other. When she pulled away, she took his hands again and bid him sit down, to tell her of his favorite poems. 

He did so, reclining upon the floor where she joined him, bringing the blanket to put over both their laps. 

"O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,  
Alone and palely loitering?  
The sedge has withered from the lake,  
And no birds sing."

Christine snuggled up against his side and he placed an arm around her shoulders, holding her close, memorizing the feeling of her body against his, reveling in the proximity of being near another, of not feeling horrible or frightening or repulsive. She seemed happy to be with him, cheerful, and at peace. He hoped she was as contented as she looked; there was some alteration in her since they had first met. She smiled more, and no longer had that half-starved, wasted look that concerned him in the first days of their acquaintance. The dark circles were gone from her eyes and her face no longer seemed drawn. 

If Erik had done her good, he could ask for nothing else from life. He wanted to keep her - he wanted so _badly_ to keep her beside him! But he tamed his desires and let himself be led by reason and a lifetime of disappointments. _Cherish her now, but always be prepared to let her go._

When the sun sank low in the sky and the time came to leave the reading room, he reluctantly rose and extended a hand to help her to her feet, which she accepted. At least passing time side by side had done her some little good: her hand in his was no longer cold.


	16. Too Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning for: mention of suicidal thoughts.**

Christine was beginning to despair. It was an odd time to feel a burst of anxiety and melancholy, but she was beginning to think the relationship she had with Erik was terribly unbalanced: he was giving her the world and she was giving him nothing but affection. 

It began the evening before she was set to begin rehearsing with the company. He presented her a neat little shirtwaist and matching wool jacket and skirt, apologizing that they were not in the latest style. 

"And they might require more alterations," he admitted, armed already with needle and thread. "I went off what we had done on the gown for the bistro. I...am sorry I had not thought to supply you with better garments sooner."

"I had no need of them sooner," Christine said, beckoning him to bend that she might kiss him in gratitude. He obliged and she gave him a peck on the chin - the only piece of flesh upon his face that she could see and touch. His mouth was elusive to her, but she was resolved to bide her time. Erik still seemed so surprised by hugs and chaste kisses that she did not wish to frighten him off with great displays of ardor. 

She retreated away from him to try on her new things; they fitted nearly perfectly, but the skirt was slightly too long. Little matter, for the length hid the toes of her twice-resoled boots and the clean, but permanently grey-tinged ruffle on her petticoat. When she emerged to show him how well her new clothes fit, he smiled and pronounced her perfect, accepting no praise of hers for his handiwork.

Erik had given her the gift of companionship, music, comfort, employment. And what had she done to repay him? What _could_ she do to repay him? Erik would not even be able to enjoy the fruits of their labor; the premiere of _Faust_ fell upon a full moon night of all cursed days! He promised he would watch the next night, but she saw how disappointed he was to be so constrained, how frustrated and she wished she could make it up to him somehow. He wanted for nothing except freedom, but how could she bestow such a grand and ephemeral gift?

Although he spoke of his home beneath the Opera (a home she would dearly like to see, but had not made bold to ask for an invitation to visit) with an air of gratitude, she could not help but feel it was merely a larger prison than the one he had been trapped in above-ground. Maybe worse, for there were no windows to keep away from.

Erik shrugged off her concern when she questioned him about missing the sunshine and out of doors. He said if it got too dark, he would take himself to the roof of the Opera, to enjoy the air and the view. It was admittedly a spectacular place, but she assumed he must be tired of it, having nowhere else he could go.   
  
He did not even go to the marketplace to buy his meat and bread, Monsieur Carriere took care of that. Erik informed of such with an embarrassed air, making some self-deprecating joke about apron-strings, but Christine did not think it was a matter to laugh at. Here was a man, intelligent, affable, kind, and generous who had to confine himself to a single building like an inmate in a particularly beautiful asylum. And why? Because his body was unusual, his face covered? 

There could be more. So much more for him...for _them_. Although they had never truly kissed, although they had never given voice to the feelings between them, Christine could not imagine a future without him in it. But Erik, she worried, could not imagine any future for himself that was different than his present.

Christine attempted to address the matter with him one evening, but only succeeded in nearly ruining everything between them.

It was a new moon night, following a rehearsal after which Erik forbade her from singing for him. Madame refused to attend rehearsals and she had been chosen of all the chorus girls to act as her double when they rehearsed, so she had been singing Marguerite's part all day. She appreciated his concern for her voice, but rankled at the fact that they were not sharing music together. Having a little more money to her name and a chance to perform on stage at last was all well and good, but she so missed being able to sing just for him, to share music together, one to the other. He promised he would sing for her, but it wasn't the same and only made her feel she was being selfish. Here he was again, giving and giving to her while she had nothing to offer in return.

And Erik did not merely give to her. As she sat by in the half-completed set, behind Faust's desk covered in his alchemical instruments, Erik puttered around with a paintbrush and bucket, completing little tasks that the stagehands had left undone.

"I endeavor to be a helpful ghost," he said, by way of explanation. He was smiling, but her heart broke for him. Erik did so much, and never received a word of thanks, nor even acknowledgement. It made her sad and angry in fits and starts and it was in that frame of mind that she started a conversation which she would come to regret.

Christine had been thinking of how to help him and remembered the traveling fairs of her childhood. She and her father never stayed with one caravan for more than a season or two, inevitably parting when the group broke up in winter. Some of the itinerants boasted among their number human prodigies, men and women of unusual stature or appearance who displayed themselves for money (often with some theatrical flair so as to avoid paying the increased tax on professional 'oddities.'

She remembered meeting a man with crooked teeth and quite a lot of hair on his face who would crouch on all fours and claimed to have been raised wild in the forests of the world, only recently discovered by man (he was actually from Moscow and spoke five languages), an Irish dwarf with the most beautiful low alto voice, and a giant from Italy who 'retired' from the performing life to settle down at a farm with his wife; he was only touring to earn enough money to purchase some livestock. He had been even taller than Erik and although he had a bit of trouble with doorways and chairs, evidently he and his wife (another quasi-retired performer), were pillars of the community in their little village. 

The salient point being that there were individuals who did look extraordinary, but nevertheless made their way in the world and did not confine themselves to hidden-away houses, who pretended to be a ghost that they might interact with the world from a distance. 

Christine did not know how Erik could stand it, watching others at work while he quietly labored for their benefit once they'd gone away. No matter who she mentioned as a new acquaintance, from the lead tenor to the shyest chorus girl, it seemed he knew something of them. From their temperaments to their family lives, there was no one who went unnoticed by Erik, even as they had no notion of his existence. 

It was that day as he went around putting finishings on the set and Christine watched him from Faust's chair that she asked, "Do you ever wish to leave the Opera someday?"

Erik stopped his painting; a drop of black fell from his brush and onto the floor. 

"I sincerely hope not," he said, not seeming to understand the question. "I am under no illusions that I might be found out, I can't always count on the credulity of the company, but...I would hope I still have some time before I am forced to leave."

"No, I didn't mean that," she said, shaking her head. "I just thought that...someday you might like to go somewhere else. Live somewhere different. I - ah. I knew a man from a carnival I traveled with. He was even bigger than _you_ and he had a - a house and wife and...horses..."

She trailed off, feeling she had made some terrible mistake. Erik was still crouched down, facing away from her. He'd stopped moving, but she could tell by the rise and fall of his back that he was breathing quite a hard. 

An awkward, heavy silence descended. Christine was used to similar silences from Erik, she knew he did not like to talk about himself overmuch, nor about his past. She held her tongue, practiced patience, tried to give him all the time and space he required in order to speak freely to her, but this felt different to those other times. This felt dangerous.

"There's nothing for me out there," Erik said, quietly, but his voice carried nevertheless. "I'm not...not fit for the world outside."

That anger and sorrow warring together saw a victor in their battle: anger won.

"Who told you that?" Christine asked, rising from her chair, going to him, but Erik stood up before she could reach him. Stood up and stood back, putting distance between them. There was a sharp 'crack!' in the air that she belatedly realized was the paintbrush snapping in his hand. "Was it...was it your - your father? Because he's quite wrong, there are many people who look out of the ordinary who manage to be quite successful and happy in their lives, I swear, I've met them!"

"They were not like me," Erik answered her in that same, low, quiet voice. He would not meet her eyes. "My...appearance is only part of it. Christine...do you - can you imagine why my father created the legend of the opera ghost? Why it was so important for the company to believe in it?"

"To - I expect to keep you...hidden," she said, trying for tact. Once Erik revealed to her that Gerard Carriere was his father, not only had she concluded that he was not saintly, her opinion of him had sunk quite low. What sort of father could go out carousing while his son suffered agonies, all alone? What sort of father encouraged his son to remain home, away from all society, because he looked different? Not a very good one, she concluded grimly, but she endeavored to keep her words neutral for Erik seemed to think the world of his father, despite the injustices he had suffered because of him. "To keep you safe."

He looked at her then and the sorrow in his eyes took her breath away.

"Not for my sake," he replied shakily. "But for _theirs_ , yours...Christine."

He turned away from her, a hand resting against the brow of the mask. Shoulders bent, breathing hard, she wanted to go to him, throw her arms around him, tell him to forget all about it, that they didn't have to talk about it anymore, that she was sorry she'd brought this up and hurt him, but it was she who had opened this Pandora's Box. She drew first blood and it was not within her power to clot the wound.

"You say you know something of my...secrets," he said, words coming more easily now that he was not facing her. "But you do not. You have no idea what I am. What I am capable of. What I've done...what I've _kept_ from you."

The distance between them wasn't physical. Though Erik hadn't moved, it was as though he was retreating from her, no longer the man who held her close and recited poetry to her, but that strange, looming figure that approached her from the orchestra pit and begged her not to fear him. 

"You don't have to tell me," she said, reaching out with a hand he could not see, desperately trying to salvage what they had between them. 

_No, please, we've come so far_ , she thought, but could not say, not when she thought he wouldn't hear her. _Don't let's go backward._

"I never wanted to tell you," Erik whispered, half to himself. "I didn't want you to know, for you would despise me - "

"I could never!" she interrupted him passionately, taking a step toward him, unable to stop herself. "I would never despise you. You've been so kind to me! You've helped me and cared for me when no one else did, I...I'll never be able to repay you for your kindness, your generosity, your goodness - "

"Stop."

"Erik, you've been... _everything_ to me, these past months!" she insisted, coming so close she could touch him, but she held back, hand hovering near his back that she could feel the warmth of his body, but not quite brushing his shirt. It was a white shirt, not a good color for painting. She hadn't seen him wear the green in quite a while. "Please believe that I could never, ever hate you! I _love_ \- "

"No!" he exclaimed, the sound loud and echoing in the empty stage. As he spoke on, his lost all his volume and ended in a ragged whisper. "I am asking you, _please_ , to...stop."

Stop what? Speaking? That she might do, and easily, but she had a feeling that was not what he was really asking. And what he was really asking her for she had not the power to manage. She could no more stop loving him than she could, by force of sheer willpower, stop the steady thumping of her heart.

"No," she replied steadily, finally reaching out and touching him, her a hand a small point of contact upon his back. "I cannot. I _love_ you. I could never _ever_ hate you. And if...even if you said you did not love me, I could not stop loving _you_."

There was a hitch in his voice. Christine was sure he was crying, but what of that? So was she.

"Of course I love you," Erik said brokenly. She wished he would look at her. She wished...a great many things. "How could I not? You are an _angel_ , a gift from God...but my-my love is nothing. It is the _love_ of a monster, Christine. No, stop!"

She had been about to contradict him, when he turned around, but backed away so she was no longer touching him. The fly rail was at his back, he could go no further. Reluctantly Christine lowered her arms to her side. She had been telling the truth when she told Erik she could never hate him, but having brought him to this state, despite their mutual confession of feelings, she rather hated herself, just a little bit. 

_You've botched it_ , she told herself miserably. _You know what his life has been. You know how neglected he has been. You ought to have been more patient. You ought to have let him come to you not chased him into a wall_.

"I should not have kept this from you," he shook his head, hands clenching to fists at his sides. "I...didn't want to frighten you. But perhaps I should have. Because you would never have - have said what you did if you knew. It...it was I. Who killed Joseph Buquet."

Joseph Buquet? Christine could not put a face to the name, but casting her mind back to overheard conversations remembered hearing it before. He was Madame Carlotta's personal dress-maker and assistant. Some months ago he'd run out on her and left his wife behind to boot. He seemed to have been a quiet, uninteresting man and so the whispers of scandal were quick to fade amid more interesting gossip. It never occurred to her - to anyone - that he had been killed. 

Erik mistook her puzzlement for disgust. 

"Yes," he continued in a voice thick with tears. "I'm so sorry. God _knows_ I'm sorry, but...that changes nothing. And maybe I'm not so sorry as all that. If I was, I might have...done something to ensure it never happened again. I thought about it, oh, so many times. But then...I heard your voice and I found something to live for. You...knowing you has been the greatest joy of my _life_ , Christine. But it's a joy I didn't deserve, it's a wicked, _evil_ joy, for I am hardly worthy of live, let alone of...feeling happiness or being...being loved. And you would never - you _could_ never have felt that way if you truly understood what I am. What I've _done_. What I might do again."

Erik was weeping openly now, in paroxysms of remorse. And she did not feel disgusted, certainly did not feel hatred. Perhaps a little pity and a great deal of sorrow.

Evil men did not weep as they confessed their misdeeds. Evil men did not confess that they felt their lives not worth living because of their guilt. And evil men did not begrudge themselves slivers of happiness because of past wrongs. 

"Was...was it _you_?" she asked, thinking she understood what Erik was _not_ saying. Christine did not fancy herself in denial. She _knew_ Erik, knew his heart. And such a man, possessing such a heart was not evil. And would never willingly harm anyone. There was one part of him, however, that eluded her knowledge. "Or...was it..."

"It is one and the same," Christine," he said, closing his eyes. Tears dripped under his mask, running in rivulets down the scars on his neck. "We...I... _it_ killed, but _it_ is inside _me_. All the time. So I must bear the guilt and the blame."

Christine shook her head, her throat tight with sorrow, shedding her own tears. For Joseph Buquet, for Erik, for herself. For prying too much and asking questions that she hadn't been ready to listen to the answers to. If she was cleverer, more compassionate, more of an _angel_ as Erik said, she might have been able to speak some words of comfort or absolution. In the face of his pain, his guilt, his confession, she had nothing to say. She could not find the words. And in endeavoring to coax him into imagining a future, she had blasted apart their present happiness. 

"This was a mistake, I see that now," he said in a trembling voice, his hands in his air. "A stupid, selfish mistake. Or...half a mistake. I - I will never regret meeting you, Christine. Teaching you. Nor...nor can I regret loving you, only lying to you so that you thought you loved me."

 _I do! I do love you!_ she wanted to say, but the words would not come. Her worst fears were coming true and her knees buckled, sending her to the floor in floods of tears. Erik backed away, retreating into the shadows. 

"I'm so sorry," he managed through his own misery. "I'm so sorry, please don't cry, you'll...you'll never see me again. I promise. Please...forgive me."

_No, no, please! Please don't leave me!_

She drew just enough air into her lungs to scream out into the theatre, "Erik!"

But there was no answer. She could not even hear his crying. 

Christine was sure he could hear hers for she sobbed and wept upon the stage, wracked with grief and guilt for that harm she'd done without meaning to, her inability to salvage it. Coherency failed her. She could not speak. She could barely breathe. For ages she sat in the dark alone, eyes searching the shadows, hoping he would appear out of the dark to comfort her. To tell her that he realized he'd mistaken her fear of losing him for fear _of_ him. But he never came. 

The only time she'd felt a grief so paralyzing was when she lost her father. She'd not cried at once; that loss had been beyond tears, beyond feeling. For a while she had been numb. Then she would rage and cry, in fits and starts, many times over many months. But that was when she'd shaken off her paralysis and had gone traveling. Christine had been brought up a child of the highways and she was not accustomed to stillness.

So it was now. She had gotten them into this sorry state and she would do her damnedest to get them out of it. She rose on shaking legs. Wiped her tears on the sleeve of the shirt that Erik had provided for her and picked up her lantern. Then she made the long trek back below to the underground lake, the first place he'd truly begun to trust her.

It was utterly dark below. She did not know if he was near, but she knew if she called, he would hear her.

"Erik!" she cried into the darkness, his name echoing off the walls and water, _Erik, Erik, Erik_. "Please come back! Please speak to me!"

Silence. Awful, dreadful silence. 

Her fingers and toes went numb; her oil was almost used up and she would need it for the climb back upstairs. 

"I'll be back," she promised. "I'll come back _every_ night until you talk to me. Please, Erik, don't shut yourself away. I _do_ love you. People don't - people _can't_ just stop. Even when they learn something...something terrible."

She ascended the stairs. At rehearsal she sang, but without joy, like a little wind-up doll. No one commented. No one really seemed to notice her. It did not matter, she only wanted the notice of one individual within the Opera.

But though she made the descent every night, good as her word, Erik did not appear. Each evening she would go to the lake, call out for him, and wait. There would be silence. And then, candle guttering, she would call a final word of love into the darkness and ascend back to the world above. 

Alone in her little room, she would shiver and toss and turn. With how invisible Erik managed to make himself about the building, more than once she feared he'd gone. But then the stagehands would talk about projects they'd left being completed overnight, one of the opera's orchestra marveled at the fact that the bow he'd forgotten after rehearsal was sitting in his place, re-haired, when he got back. Sometimes thanks was called out to the Opera Ghost and Christine knew he was there, he was simply staying hidden and ignoring her. 

Not for the same reason as the company; not because she was insignificant or beneath his notice, she knew him too well to suspect that. Everything Erik had done for her since the night they met had been for her benefit; doubtless he thought that this was meant to help her too.

It did not. She missed him and ached for him and even sang for him some nights, in a tremulous voice, weak with restrained tears. Some of the company remarked that the great power of her voice seemed diminished. It was beautiful, but hollow. 

Which was why, it was a great surprise to her, when Madame Carlotta came to her an hour before the curtain was to open on _Faust_ with a cup of warm tea. It was the worst possible occurrence, she said, in her usual histrionic fashion. Her voice was not what it should be - even he special tonic that she _always_ drank before _every_ performance was no help. As Christine knew the part so well, could she - _would_ she - be willing to go on in her place?

Christine was so downtrodden with misery that the strangeness of the offer scarcely registered. Why her? Why not a more senior company member who also knew the role? Why her little stand-in? But she merely nodded, mumbling something about it being an honor. And when Madame Carlotta pressed her to drink her tonic - to soothe her nerves and aid her voice - Christine complied, hardly noticing the strange, bitter taste in her throat; it was no worse than tasting her own tears when she sang.


	17. Soulless

Later, when Erik thought back to that awful conversation with Christine upon the opera's stage, he would ascribe his tearful confession to one all-consuming feeling: panic. 

Confession was always in the back of his mind. He knew that his secrets could not remain buried forever, however much he might wish that they could be. He wanted more time, just a _little_ more time, but then Christine started talking about the future. She said she loved him. And he panicked. 

He never really stopped; long hours he would lie awake in his bed, replaying their conversation, her tears, his tears, and wish it had never happened. He would go over and over it, thinking of the thousand little ways he might have responded differently, but it always ended with the same miserable conclusion: he had to tell her someday. No matter when, it would have felt as though it was too soon, but the longer he kept the truth of his nature from her the more he was not just a monster, but a liar as well.

Before... _before_ he had killed, a small prideful part of himself might have rankled when Christine compared him to carnival freaks, offering up their exhibition of their bodies as an alternative to his own hermit-like existence. But his pride was gone, vanished in one fatal action; the dwarfs and giants she spoke of were human beings, at least, and he was not. Their extraordinary appearances were due to nature's caprices, but his own were entirely unnatural in origin. She had to know. She could not go on thinking he was only a strange-looking man, imagining that there was life for him in some nebulous future. There was only death; that was all he had been marked for since he was seven years old. 

Perhaps he had died that night. If his soul had fled his body, leaving behind only a semblance of its host, a sort of intellectual facsimile, how would he know? It was possible that the child, _Gerard Carriere, fils_ (called Erik by his parents) yet lived on in some heavenly realm, despite the lowly circumstances of his birth, despite the violence of his death. He had been baptized, after all. Long had he dwelt upon such a possibility, though in his youth the prospect terrified him. It was a horror beyond horrors to think that he was not _himself_ , that he was only a shadow of a living soul that had long since fled to realms beyond. Now it brought him some little solace: if the child was saved and might somehow be united with those few who loved him in the hereafter, that was better than the alternate. Even if it meant the creature that called itself 'Erik' might be consigned to oblivion or worse when life departed his body as soul might have done years ago. 

It was those thoughts, those all-consuming, miserable thoughts that plagued him for weeks after his confession to Christine that she thought she loved a monster. When he was younger, he used to console himself with music ( _'I cannot be a soulless, damned thing if I can make music, can I?'_ were his desperate mantras that kept him sane). Now that same reasoning kept him rooted to the earth when night after night she would sing her siren song across the water, _'Erik, come speak to me! Please, I miss you. I love you. I'll be back tomorrow.'_

She was good as her word and it was so hard not to do as she bid, crawl out of his hole and seek a reconciliation, but he held firm. This time his mantra was: _I cannot be a soulless, damned thing if I stay away and keep her safe, can I?_

But, God, how he _missed_ her. Erik had never in his life suffered such heavy melancholy, as though a great weight was pressing upon his heart always. When his mother had been killed he was too young and in too much shock to remember feeling much of anything. Gerard did not speak of her overmuch or directly and as the years went by, she became a dim memory, like a well-loved fairy tale, memorized but always a little too ephemeral and glowing to feel real. When Gerard quietly and firmly began to remove Erik from his life and his affection, it was a sorrow that was delivered slowly, drop by drop until it filled him from top to toe, ebbing during their infrequent meetings about the business of the opera, flowing back like the tide when Gerard would leave him again.

Christine had captivated him utterly, first by her voice, then by the charm of being herself. Erik loved her (was that another point for his humanity? the fact that he thought he could love?), but could not bear the idea of her loving him back. She could _not_ love him. She did not _know_ him. He scarcely knew himself.

Certainly he knew how he acted, how he wished to be perceived by those few who knew of his existence. Neat and clean; when he was small, his father instilled in him that a respectable appearance might cause others to overlook the mask he wore. Polite and well-spoken; when he was rather older, he thought that good manners and a solicitous nature might undercut the instinctive fear of others. He could not make himself small, but he could be mild. Humorous too; Gerard liked a biting sort of satirical person, characteristic of the witty and urbane. Arch observations made him laugh and when he was laughing, Erik could hope he was pleased with him. All of this was calculated to soothe and please others.

As for Erik himself? He loved his music. He loved his books. He wished to see the Opera flourishing and well-respected and those within looked after and taken care of. When Christine spoke of the future in concrete terms, he found himself overwhelmed and taken aback. He did have hopes for himself, but they were all impossible. He wished to be liked. He wished to be loved. 

Christine said she did. _Thought_ she did, but it was not so. Erik was unworthy and undeserving of approbation or tenderness. The fact that he desired those things did not change the fact that he could not have them. Not for always. He had his father's affection when he was young and now that was all but gone. He had Christine's regard for a while...but now she knew the worst of what he was. And no matter how often she traipsed below and called to him, he knew that she would realize the futility of her actions.

 _Soon_ , he promised himself anxiously as he watched the rehearsals from his usual hidden places, heavy heart sinking further when he saw Christine walking around like a ghost, singing without joy or spirit. _She'll find her place among them._ _She is like them. Not like you. She belongs with them, in the light._

Although Erik avoided contact with anyone (now it was he who skirted around Gerard's arrival when he heard him coming, doubtless to Gerard's relief), he did not brick himself up in the cellars with the bones of the Communards. Not yet.

If he could not be good, he would be useful. He provided his usual aid to the Opera...and some encouragement, in subtle ways. 

There was talk of a monument of some sort in Westminster Abbey to commemorate the late Jenny Lind. It was one of the principle sins of the Paris Opera, back when they were still at the Salle Le Peletier, that the Swedish soprano had auditioned for them once and been turned down. The offense was so great that once she achieved fame and success she refused to perform for the company, despite repeated entreaties to do so.

The audition took place long before the Garnier was constructed, but the reputation as the opera house who told Jenny Lind she couldn't sing was one that seemed likely to haunt them forever. Wouldn't it be something if they discovered a Swedish soprano who was _greater_ than Lind?

Erik took a chance and asked Jean-Claude to do him a favor and post a letter for him. Shortly thereafter, an article appeared in _Le Matin_ , from an individual who described himself only as a long-time subscriber and patron of the Opera, bringing up the tribute to Lind, lamenting that the Paris Opera had made such terrible missteps in judgement, alluding to the recent flop of _Norma,_ and wondering whether or not one of the other great theatres of Paris must supply for the deficiencies of the once-great national company.

Monsieur Choletti was an avid reader of _Le Matin_. Erik knew the manager had Christine placed as Carlotta's stand-in during rehearsals, thinking that would placate the Comte who he presumed to be her patron. She was already within the scope of their notice. She only wanted a little...nudge. Despite her recent bout of melancholy her voice was still magnificent, far and above the rest of the company. They might give her a better role in the next production.

This was a kindness. This was the best he could do for her. Every night she called to him, every night he clasped his hands over his ears and fought with the slavering mindless thing within him that wanted to run to her, as he had that night after the full moon. That bade him make a fool of himself, wading through the stagnant lake water, that wanted to be held and kissed and sung to. To that weak, passionate, animalistic part of his nature, he could give no quarter. Erik hated the chains and shackles on the walls, but was tempted to use them, if only to keep himself in place so that he did not forsake his better nature and come when she called. 

_She will forget you_ , he told himself when her calls ended on words of love and a sob. Often he would be sobbing too, his sleeve in his mouth to stifle the sound. _She will make friends. She will get more challenging roles. And she will forget you. Not entirely, she is too good for that. But she will stop coming below and she will stop calling. All in due time. Then you must cherish her memory and let her go._

A conversation in the managers' office seemed to indicate that her going forth from him might come sooner either of them could have hoped. Raised voices beckoned him to creep along, ears perked, listening intently to Monsieur Choletti and Madame Carlotta engaged in a shouting match; since late summer this had been the white noise of the opera house, turned out and ignored. So too Erik would have endeavored to ignore this little domestic until he heard Christine's name shouted amid Choletti's bellowing and Carlotta's screeching.

"It's obscene!" she screamed. "I'll leave you - I'll _kill_ you! It's monstrous! Devilish! To ask me to step aside that that little scullery maid should take my place!"

"I am asking no such thing!" Choletti snapped, thinking his wife might be persuaded through volume and not argument. "She would not replace you -"

"She would take _my_ premiere!" Carlotta raged. "The press will be there - _every_ seat is sold!"

"You would have every other performance!" her husband countered. "This is not a replacement, this is for _publicity_! That is how it will play in the press. The great diva, struck down tragically! A girl who was her maid only weeks ago being thrust onto the stage to take her place! Catastrophe! Only, wait! She is a prodigy! The little maid can sing! This is, naturally, nothing at all to La Carlotta, the toast of Paris, she has _something_. In time, she might mature into a star! And she was all discovered through a fluke. Think of the grosses! This story will reach as far as London, New York, even! Then think of what we will be!"

Erik could not see them, but well he could picture the scene: Carlotta strutting about the place, red-faced, breathing heavily like a bull. Her husband, suit soaked with sweat, mustache drooping in anxious desperation. Such a change from Gerard's office, an oasis of calm, of orderly numbers, ledgers, and registers. Gerard always kept a bottle of brandy in a locked cupboard, for particularly dire circumstances and Erik wondered if either of the Cholettis had discovered it.

"Then you will return!" Choletti continued, perhaps sensing he was wearing her down. "A phoenix, rising from the ashes! And they will see the little Swedish girl was nothing to her! Promising, yes! But nothing to our star!"

They said nothing of _Faust_. Nothing of how the rest of the cast might react to having their leading ladies changed round on them. And yet, Erik found his heart lightening for the first time in ages. It would _not_ be as Choletti said - how could it be? When Christine was in every way Carlotta's superior, when her voice was unparalleled? When she was so much better suited for Marguerite - for Christine could encapsulate it all, the childish naivete, the fall from grace, the despair. Carlotta would sing the Jewel Song loudly. Christine would capture the hearts of her audience, they would _never_ consent to let Carlotta tread upon the stage once they had seen her.

Oh, he would have to tell her! Rouse her from her sleep and take her upon the stage where she might rehearse the role, not just to quietly sing during rehearsal, but to act the part as well, make it her own! They only had a little time, but...

Erik's thoughts ran away with him. For one brief, sweet moment, he had forgotten that their time together had run out. Their 'us' was over. There was only Christine now and the adoration of the world awaited her. He would be the ghost again. It was all he was good for, and once was Christine was gone away from the Opera there would truly be nothing for him. 

The conversation petered out after that. Choletti softened his tone and praised his wife. Carlotta was strangely silent before reluctantly agreeing to her husband's scheme. It was a small, petty piece of theatre they wanted to work in the press. Beneath the dignity of the Garnier of a year ago. Times had changed. Things were different now and if a farcical contrivance was what it took for Christine to gain the attention she so deserved, then Erik would bless the opportunity. 

Bless it only, for he could not witness it. The moon would rise before Marguerite sang her first note. And he would be below, mindless, unseeing, unhearing. Perhaps he would forego the chains again. Venture closer to the surface than he ordinarily dared, that he might hear her briefly. It would be the first time he heard her singing outside of rehearsals. She no longer went upon the stage at night. No longer sang her folksongs, nor anything else when she was not bid to.

It hurt Erik terribly to know he hurt her, but he consoled himself knowing that her pain was only temporary. It had to be, she was meant for so much more than to be adored by a wretch like him. He had been fortunate enough to know her and love her, but when she began to speak of the future he _knew_ he could not keep her. She wanted sunshine and fresh air and a real life and he wanted them for her, but she could not have them if she chained herself to him. Erik had to content himself with a cellar, Christine deserved the sky and the earth and every good thing. 

And when he was weak. When he physically ached to be near her, he took himself to the mirror. Look at his body, grotesque and monstrous, at his face, gruesome and abhorrent and that, surer than chains and stone, kept him locked in place. 

_You are a monster_ , he reminded himself daily. _A hideous, soulless_ nothing _that was fortunate enough to have been touched by an angel once in your life. Not even men can say that. Honor her by letting her go._

Erik was good as his word. But as he told his Christine that awful night, he was not Erik only. There was something else within him that roamed the Opera house under an unseen moon. And it cared for Christine as fervently as he did.


	18. Agonies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning for: body horror, description of vomiting.**

Horror upon horror. When Christine began to feel faint and dizzy, sitting at the spinning wheel she thought it was an attack of nerves. She'd never suffered such before and had not thought she would be so afflicted now; the lights were so bright and glaring that she could not even seen the audience. 

The feeling only got worse. She was hot and shivery and her stomach was roiling as though she had ague and her head was muffled. She missed her cue. The prompter tapped upon the stage to get her attention. She might have opened her mouth. Might have managed to squeak out a note or two, but all turned to dim blackness...and then she was sick. All over the lead tenor's shoes.

The stage exploded into chaos. Gamely, Faust attempted to sing on, ignoring the puddle at his feet, but others in the chorus lost all composure and shrieked. A few people attempted to hurry her offstage...then La Carlotta appeared. Dressed and made up as Marguerite. And Christine realized that this was not a spontaneous attack of nerves or even a sudden bout of flu.

The drink. The bitter tasting drink she'd swallowed without a second thought. Her stomach clenched and hear eyes teared. Christine was hurried out into the wings and shoved violently offstage. Carlotta was poised to take her place, but it was not a smooth entrance; she slipped and fell in the puddle of sick upon the floor, shrieking in disgust as half the audience roared with laughter and the other half stormed the box office, demanding their tickets be refunded. 

All this Christine would dwell upon later; for now she stumbled and eventually crawled back into her little hole in the wall room, loosing the ties upon the kirtle she was dressed in as Marguerite, her wig was coming unpinned and she wrenched it off her head, wig cap painfully pulling at her scalp. Her face was hot and flushed, her skin clammy and sweaty. 

Never in her life had she felt so ill, so miserable. She wondered if she might die; if she did, who would miss her?

Erik, she thought, wishing for him most ardently. Erik would miss her, though he ignored all her entreaties to speak to her and come near her. Although she never saw him, he still left her little presents of food and clean water. Water which she swallowed down in an effort to stop the painful spasms in her stomach, but it was no use; it all came up again and she fell upon the floor, crying and curled up, the room spinning around her.

How had it come to this? An hour ago she had been poised to fulfill her father's great wish for her and now she was lower than she had been, sick and terrified on a dirty floor. 

_God, help me_ , she prayed silently, dirt clinging to the tears on her face as her cheeks scraped the stone. Even with her eyes closed it felt as though the room was spinning all around her, like she was sinking low into an abyss, but her face felt so, _so_ hot. This must be what going to hell felt like. _I'm sorry, Papa. I've failed you...I've failed myself._

Christine awoke from whatever half-conscious doze she'd fallen into feeling something cold on her cheek. Then a rough, wet tongue lapping at her face and neck. 

It was dark in her room, almost totally black, but Christine could just discern an enormous shape moving in front of her. Pain shot through her skull as she tried to focus her eyes and she closed them again, but warm breath ghosted over her face and she felt something gently pushing and nudging at her. 

Gleaming eyes caught what little light there was; glowing yellow eyes in the darkness.

"Erik..." she tried to say, but coughed instead, stomach clenching painfully. Awash in agony and misery she shivered on the cold, hard floor, but something warm and soft settled beside her. She concentrated on the steady breathing that she could hear beside her, punctuated occasionally by a deep, whining whimper and licking of her face and nudging at her hands.

Christine was only dimly aware of her surroundings; in future, she would not be able to recount the rest of the night, only bits and pieces. She remembered nearly swooning as she was made to rise through continual urging, eventually clinging to thick, warm fur, feeling herself being lifted off the floor as though onto the back of a great, furry horse.

It was all she could do to hold on and not be sick again. At one point there was a strong smell of damp and she gagged, but her throat only burned; there was nothing left in her stomach to expel. Eventually the movement stopped and she rolled off the great furry body and fell upon something soft and firm, blankets fisting in her hands. A bed. A real bed; she hadn't slept on a real bed in ages. 

Rolling her face over she breathed in deeply and was surrounded by the scent of soap and a deeper, more familiar smell that she associated with Erik.   
  
Christine could not lift her head, but she did open her eyes. It was _so_ dark, but her eyes were used to it and she squinted to sharpen her vision. The shape was easier to discern; her rescuer seemed to be nothing so much as an enormous dog, the size of a small horse. As if it sensed her gaze, it came closer, resting its huge shaggy head upon the bed beside her, looking at her with glowing golden eyes. If she didn't know better, she would have read concern and sympathy in its expression.

She reached out a shaking hand and rested it behind one of the creature's ears; it twitched under her hand and its golden eyes closed. Christine could feel the heat of it radiating up through her palm. The beast was a solid, reassuring presence beside her and Christine felt a few tears trickle down her cheeks. The creature inched forward, its tongue lapping at them and she smiled, rubbing her face against the blankets. 

Never in her life had she felt so awful. Every inch of her hurt from her pounding head to the shivers that ran up and down her limbs. Everything else seemed dim and inconsequential; the drink, Madame Carlotta's scheming, her great debut going up in flames, it didn't matter in comparison to how ill she felt. How ill and alone. 

Only she wasn't alone. There was someone who cared about her, even when he chose not to make his presence known. And although her thoughts were too disordered and her mind too confused, somehow deep within she recognized that the beast beside her, who looked at her with such concern and tended to her as best it could had to be Erik. 

Were she in her right mind, she would have examined him closely. Were her throat not raw and burning, she would have spoken to him, trying to ascertain if he understood her, if this was indeed _entirely_ Erik. Were she not so ill and exhausted, she might have rolled her eyes and smiled as she recalled their last conversation. This was no slavering monster! No demon come from hell to slaughter anyone, indeed, he had _saved_ her from hell. Had somehow heard or sensed her distress and come to her side to take her someplace where she would be warm and safe.

But she could not sit up, she could barely think. She only buried her hand in his soft, deep fur, weakly gripping and silently begging not to be abandoned again.

The creature - Erik? - seemingly had no intention of leaving her. He kept his eyes trained upon her, only leaving to grip a blanket, folded at the end of the bed, and dragged it up over her before resuming his patient vigil.

Christine did not feel worse as the night progressed, but she did not feel better, only receiving a reprieve in sleep. What slumber she had was brief and fitful, broken by fever and chills, stomach cramps that made her curl up in a ball and sob. 

Her distress made the creature comes as close as it could, leaning its head over her, sniffing anxiously at her mouth and neck, drawing close and keeping her warm. At one point, he placed one of his paws beside her. It was note _quite_ like a dog's paw, the claws at the tips were very thick and extremely sharp, but Christine kept her fingers well away from them as she stroked the tops; the short fur was velvety soft.

Under different circumstances, if she was more aware of what was going on around her, she might have been wary at least, of this being who some might properly term a monster, at her side. At least intensely curious and disbelieving that Erik might somehow become _this_. But she was not capable of such complex thinking and only knew she was grateful not to have been left alone in her suffering.

Just the awareness of a presence in the dark beside her was soothing, even if it could not heal her. For months - more than a year, honestly, ever since she lost her father - she had to learn to abide loneliness. Whether it was sleeping side by side in a tent or sharing lodgings at an inn, she always had someone beside her. To comfort her when she was sad, to cry out to when she was frightened. Learning to live without that reassurance was one of the hardest things she had ever done and she still was not completely used to it. And so having someone - some _thing_ , even - beside her when she felt so horrendous meant so much to her. 

_Are you in there, Erik?_ she thought, looking at the creature during one of her more lucid moments. _Why didn't you come sooner?_

If he had she might have been less distracted. More able to sense Carlotta's treachery...or perhaps not. Perhaps, even if he was watching over her, she still might have erred. Too trusting and naive for her own good. 

Christine fell back to sleep again; she was too ill to dwell upon her mistake. She needed all her energy to survive it. 

At one point she was sensible of being alone; not even the giant furry head was beside her and the golden eyes were not looking at her. Christine tried to sit up, but the blood drained from her head and she swooned back against the pillows. Noise roused her. The creature had been almost silent throughout the night, but for his initial whimpering and heavy breathing, only now it growled, rough and low in his throat.

Christine opened her eyes painfully, blurred vision taking in the sight before her, but not really seeing anything clearly. He had gone away from her, retreating to a corner of the room, turning away from her so that his back faced her...then he started to shudder and she had to squeeze her eyes shut tight. 

Once, Christine was on the verge of losing a tooth and she was impatient to have it out of her mouth. The sound of it tearing out of her gums as she pulled at it, the popping, that was so loud and distinct never left her memory, even though it hadn't been painful, it _sounded_ painful. Lying it that bed, she heard it again, but magnified a hundred-fold, a terrible cacophony of popping joints and tearing sinew. She thought she even heard the crunch of bone breaking. 

With the feeble strength she possessed, she put her hands over her ears and curled up beneath the blanket into a ball, but it wasn't enough to completely block the sound of suffering. 

The huffing breath mellowed into gasping and the growls became groans. Christine chanced to open her eyes, but closed them again, wishing she hadn't; the knobs of Erik's spine seemed about to burst through the skin, rippling and moving as if each segment was being forced into place by unseen hands. 

With a groan of her own, she rolled away, burying her face in the pillows. The sounds of a body being broken and reformed faded away, replaced with ragged breathing and a single word:

_"Christine?"_


	19. Sleep

The first thing Erik was conscious of was Christine's presence, strong in the room - his room, his _bedroom_.

Something was wrong, for he rarely awoke inside his house, ruefully he reflected that the wolf was content to damage _him_ , but not his possessions. Yet when he woke, there was only the residual pain of the transformation, no lacerations or bite marks to contend with. Nevertheless, he woke in horror - how was Christine here? With him? When she was meant to have made her debut upon the Garnier stage the night before?

He gasped her name, fearing...oh, everything. That the beast had abducted her somehow. _Harmed_ her. And her lack of response seemed to confirm the worst. 

Hastily he covered himself, donning a robe and tying on his mask with shaking hands. 

"I...I..." he couldn't find any words. Couldn't fathom what she had potentially suffered. Joseph Buquet had been _devoured_. There was nothing left of the man once the beast had its way with him. Christine...bright, beautiful kind Christine...she did not deserve to have a hair on her head harmed, let alone -

She reached out toward him with a thin, trembling hand. At once, Erik backed away, certain she was warning him off, but she was extending a hand, palm up. 

" _...Erik..._ "

If anything was going to snap him out of his panic and fit of self-loathing, it was the sound of Christine's voice. Erik always thought that if she spoke more around the Opera, even when she was working as a laundress, that someone might have noticed how extraordinary she was. There was a beautiful, bell-like quality to her speaking voice that made one never want to stop listening to her. 

When she said his name, it was ragged, harsh, a wheeze rather than a word. What _happened_? She sounded for all the world as though she was in the midst of a terrible bout of ague, not a powerful singer on the verge of stardom. He'd been listening to her when she rehearsed, she sounded _wonderful_. Erik came to her side and _really_ looked at her, more closely than he had when he assumed he had injured her. 

Her skin was pale, her hair was sticking out of her wig-cap, plastered down with sweat and there was a pronounced smell of sickness around her. No blood. And she was still wearing her costume, though she had been covered in a blanket.

There were nothing but questions before him. How had Christine become so sick? How had she come to be here, with him? And how had she survived her encounter with the creature?

They would have to wait. Christine was suffering and in pain. When he came closer, she latched onto his hand, gripping his fingers and looking up at him with eyes watery with pain and exhaustion.

"I'm going to bring you some water," he said, laying the back of his hand upon her forehead. It was cool. No fever, thus calling into question his initial assumption that she was suffering a sudden illness. "I'll...I'll be right back."

She smiled. She actually _smiled_ at him. And Erik's heart quietly broke. 

It was worse than the pain of abandoning her. Because when he cut her free, he could at least console himself that it was for her benefit, that as he shrank away into the darkness, she could blossom into the light. 

Something terrible had happened to her. He did not know what, but it was so awful, that she would bear the company of a monster that she knew to be a murderer and _smile_.

Erik lit a lamp before he left to retrieve a glass of water for her. When he returned, she gamely tried to sit up under her own strength, but clearly struggled to rise. It was deeply ingrained in him not to touch others, but even more intrinsic to his nature was a desire to be helpful. To be of use. Especially to someone he loved. 

He lowered himself beside her on the bed, belatedly wishing that he'd dressed properly, but caring for Christine mattered more than being strictly presentable. 

Easing an arm around her shoulders, he helped her sit and watched anxiously as she took tiny sips of water. She leaned heavily against him, but managed the cup on her own. Erik used his free hand to unpick the pins holding her cap on - careful to avoid scratching her with his claws. Her costume was stained in the front and damp down her back with sweat.

Christine was the first person he had ever taken care of. For all his life, Erik had been others' burden and he tried to repay his debt however he could. Giving her little gifts of food, training her voice, that was all well and good, but tending to the sick was something he had never been called upon to do. 

Should he draw her a bath? It seemed unwise if she could not remain upright on her own, yet she could not possibly be comfortable as she was. He had nothing else to offer her to dress in...and would she be followed? Surely, whatever had happened the night before, someone would notice she was missing. Someone would come looking for her...

Whatever the future held, the reality of the present anchored his thoughts. Erik could not get carried away on a wave of indecision and panic. He had to do whatever he could to help her. He owed her at least that much. 

She finished the water. She kept it down. And then did an extraordinary thing: She leaned against his side and drew her right arm over his middle, then sighed as though she'd run an exhausting race and come to the end of it. 

With studied care, Erik brushed his knuckles down the side of Christine's drawn cheek. She hadn't tried to speak again and he suspected that she could not. Her breathing was steady, but not deep; she was still awake. 

"I'm going to bring you something else to wear," he said, not removing himself from her side. "And more water."

Christine's arm tightened and she nuzzled his side.

" _Thank you_ ," she rasped, a painful-sounding whisper.

"Shh," he said, easing her back onto the pillows. "Don't strain yourself to speak, there's...there's no need to thank me."

Erik walked away on legs that were still aching in the aftermath of the full moon, but he ignored his own discomfort. He had to take care of Christine. She was far, far more important than he was. 

There was a truck of his mother's things that his father had not wanted to keep in his home, but could not bear to throw away. It was how Erik had come by many of his possessions; chairs or end tables his father thought were ugly or unsuitable went to his son, in addition to properties from old productions which no one would miss. This truck was just another of Gerard Carriere's cast-offs. 

There were a few dresses, nightgowns, one of her theatrical costumes, some photographs. The final earthly remains of a dancer born Isabella Mancini, better known as Belladova upon the stage of the Opera Garnier. The clothes had been folded up with lavender sachets, so he always associated the smell of lavender with his mother, though he could not recall what scent she favored in life, if any. 

The lace around the cuffs and collar were yellowed, but the garment was clean and Erik took care not to pierce the fabric by handling it too roughly. When he returned to the bedroom, Christine was half propped-up on the pillows, slowly drinking the water he'd left with her.

"If...if I draw you a bath," he said slowly, feeling the heat rise in his neck at the suggestion. "Do you think you could sit up and...manage?"

It was not, principally, the notion of her body, uncovered before him which gave him pause. It was his hands. Erik could not think of touching her, bare and vulnerable, when he might so easily harm her without meaning to. 

Christine set her cup down and used her hands to sit up. She closed her eyes and really seemed to think on it and Erik shored himself up, silently vowing to be terribly careful and respectful and - 

Mercifully Christine opened her eyes and nodded in the affirmative, thus settling the matter. 

He carried her to the washroom; though she could sit up unassisted, he didn't like her chances walking on her own. It was like cradling a bird in his arms, a nearly weightless presence with hollow bones. For her part, Christine seemed as contented as she could be, given her state of suffering. She leaned her head against his chest and squeezed his hand as though to reassure him that she was alright when he set her on her feet. The bathwater came hot from the taps - the squatter during the Commune had been a strange variety of genius, but it served him well over the years. There was a cake of soap, a towel for her, and the gown draped over a chair for her. 

With his bedroom once again unoccupied, Erik took the chance to dress himself before he went into the kitchen to make a small meal for her (and a larger one for himself).It was a strange alteration in his usual routine after the full moon; the same tasks, but done in the service of another, rather than himself. Erik suspected Christine's stomach was still unsettled, so he did not prepare anything too heavy for her, merely some dry toast should she want anything. 

It was surreal to have another in his house. Gerard's visited tended to be brief and businesslike, held in his sitting room. To hear another breathing, moving, and _living_ in his home was strange.

It wasn't right. Erik reflected grimly. She wasn't meant to be there. She wasn't meant to see him again, ever. How had all of this come to be? How had the creature been with her? It had to have presented itself, Christine could not have made her way down without its interference - perhaps her screams of horror had rubbed her vocal chords raw.

" _Erik?_ " 

He winced to hear her speak; it was like a desecration of a holy idol. Logically he knew it was a linger effect of her illness, but it still hurt him to hear her beautiful voice marred for any length of time, for any reason.

_What happened?_

She was beyond telling him and he could not imagine the knowing would do either of them any good. Erik merely set her meager breakfast aside and returned to the washroom to gather her in his arms again; her hair was still damp and tangled. He thought there might have been a brush in his mother's trunk and vowed to himself that he would look for it later. 

For now he put Christine back into bed, covering her more warmly with the sheets and blankets. She nibbled on the toast that he brought and finished another glass of water. She looked a little revived now, less horribly ill and wan; there was color in her cheeks, at least.

When she yawned, he made to take his leave, but Christine's hand shot out and gripped his arm. She shook her head and with her free hand patted the bed beside her. 

Erik blanched beneath the mask. He couldn't. He _shouldn't._

"Oh, no, Christine, I..."

But her feeble hold on his arm tightened and her expression turned pleading.

"Please," she whispered. "I don't want to be left alone."

How could he deny her? When she was so ill and weak, and unhappy? 

Erik turned down the lamp and joined her in the bed. There was precious little room for the both of them. When Christine had been alone she looked tiny, a pale shape in the darkness. Now, though he tried to cling to the very edge of the bed, she seemed not to want to put any distance between them. Indeed, rather than availing herself of the pillows, she draped her arm over his waist and lay her head down upon his chest.

Once he was in bed, the effects of the night seemed to fall upon him all at once. He had not the mental energy to debate how obscene it was that such a good, pure soul as Christine's was forced to rely upon a creature such as he for aid and comfort. He could not wonder any longer what had become of her or how they had been brought together again. He could not even keep his eyes open. And so without another thought the two of them fell into a long and restful slumber.


	20. Knight Errant

Christine awakened to warmth and comfort for the first time in over a year. If it wasn't for the aching of her head and lingering queasiness in her stomach, she'd say with certainty that she was the most contented she had been in a long, long while.

Trying to move as little as possible so that she did not disturb Erik, she chanced a glance up at him. He was deeply asleep, his head lolling at an uncomfortable looking angle. The ties that held his mask in place had loosened so that it sat a little lower upon his brow than normal, shadowing his eyes in blackness. 

A quiver went through her fingers; it would be so simple to reach up and remove it, just slide it from his face and claim (if he woke) that he had moved suddenly it had come off. Then the final barriers between them would be gone and...

 _No, stop that_ , Christine chided herself firmly. Her hand remained where it was and she continued to watch Erik sleep through half-open eyes. _You've no right to take his mask from him without his knowing. Even if you mean well. It would be a wicked, wicked thing to do when he's been so kind to you._

No matter what Erik had to say about himself, the previous night absolutely settled the matter for Christine: he was, without doubt, the kindest man she had ever known. Even when his shape was altered and his mind, perhaps, not quite his own. Yes, his slightly parted lips revealed sharp fangs still in his mouth and the hand loosely wrapped around her waist was tipped with claws, but what of that? She knew this man's soul and it was kind.

Christine might have lain there for hours, watching him sleep (the only time she'd seen him truly peaceful in all the months they had known one another), but she had to absent herself from the bed to use his bathroom again. It was a testimony to how exhausted Erik must have been that he did not move a muscle, nor was there a hitch in his breathing as she slipped away, creeping slowly down to the foot of the bed so that she did not have to climb over him. She hoped his dreams were sweet. 

She winced as she stood; her head swam a bit and her stomach hurt, but she no longer felt like she was going to be ill and the pounding in her head subsided. She took the lamp with her as she remembered the path Erik had taken her on, from bedroom to bathroom. Guiltily, she reflected she might have walked there herself, even hours ago, but was unwilling to insist and so lose the sensation of his arms around her. 

It was like something out of a legend or fairy tale. The maid being rescued from the dragon's tower by her knight errant (only substitute a dragon for a red-haired banshee). Christine was not a fine lady and had no aspirations of being so, but regardless, it had been a wonderful sensation to be tenderly held by someone who cared so deeply about her welfare and about whom she cared so much. 

She told Erik she loved him every night for a month. Her affection had not ebbed in the slightest, indeed, his absenting himself from her presence only made her desire to be with him stronger. It might not have been his intent, but she could not help her feelings. She only hoped that when he woke, he would listen to her, _really_ listen to her. He was no nightmare creature, pulling her into the darkness. It was only with him that she could see the light.

Even if Erik's sweet optimism had proven true and she _was_ swarmed with more friends and admirers than she could count, her heart wanted him foremost among the whole of Paris. Perhaps the whole of the world, for who else _lived_ through music, as he did? Who else was so passionate and consumed by their art? Who else was so tender and so brilliant? Who else so funny and so talented? Who else was so gentle and so strong?

Very, very few men, if any. And who else had magic in their veins? Erik might speak of evil and curses, but though the transformation itself had been painful to listen to, she could not call the creature that had lovingly looked after her the night before anything _but_ magical. Nor the man he was the rest of the time. 

Before she left the bathroom she drank some cool water from the taps over the wash basin and splashed some over her face. It was not within her to be coy and lie to herself or others about her feelings. She was honest, straight-forward. Curious to a fault. She told Erik already that she loved him and had done for weeks; but she had wanted him for longer. Ever since that night she had wrapped his arms around herself on the roof and been pressed into his warmth, the strong lines of his body. She _desired_ him and she hoped he did her as well; it was difficult to tell. She was not adept at keeping her feelings and thoughts hidden and poor Erik's entire life had been cloaked in secrecy from the moment of his birth.

That was why she was so keen to see his face, why her hands had been alight with purpose. Though she had longed for him to kiss her for what felt like ages, she thought maybe it wouldn't be right. If she didn't _really_ know what he looked like, could she truly say she desired him? Erik might have been used to concealment, but she was _not_. 

_Too much_ , she reminded herself. It is all too much and too soon. _He thought he was hiding himself away forever. You have a second chance; don't ruin it._

Christine did not immediately return to bed; she felt better rested and steadier on her feet. Her mind was too alive to rest; if she tried she would only dwell upon the awful parts of the night before and she did not want to. Not yet. For now she would hold on to the feeling of being looked-after and well-cared for, rather than facing the reality that in the world above she was despised. That she might have been killed and no one would have cared. Those were not thoughts for the present, not when she might think of anything else.

Instead she wandered from room to room, attempting silence. When Erik confessed to living beyond the lake, she expected a cabin or a lean-to, but the homeliness of his dwelling took her aback. There were rooms, taps from which gushed hot and cold water, a stove with a long pipe to carry the smoke up and away, even a fireplace in a sitting room which boasted a large armchair and shelves of books. These, she could see from their spines, were not the librettos, scores, or academic texts from the Opera's library, but novels, books of verse, histories, books by explorers, and naturalists. With a pang of sympathy and sorry, she noted some careworn atlases on a tea table with a mended leg.

Erik had crammed as much of the world as he could think of into these four walls. Color illustrations and reproductions of tinted photographs of people and places he thought he would never see. When she dangled the prospect of a life beyond the Opera before him, he recoiled and shrank back into the darkness. She wondered at the time if it was frightening to him, the notion of leaving someday. 

Yet the self-loathing in his eyes, the conviction in his voice told her otherwise: Erik was not afraid of the world, he thought he was unfit for it. This room with all its stories of the world as not sad in how small it was; it was an expression of nobility. That although Erik might dream of far-away lands and beautiful scenery, he refused to permit himself the reality of embracing it, thinking he was ensuring the safety of his fellow man by not walking among them. 

Stifling a sob on the back of her sleeve, Christine sank to the floor of the cold, silent room, placing her lantern next to her, watching the shadows play upon the walls, light swallowed up by the empty fireplace. It would be a lie to say she never faltered in her conviction that Erik was mistaken in his assessment of himself. She had seen him, after all, close to the night of the full moon. She could not deny that he was fearsome to behold and when he said that he had killed in his transformed state, she wondered if, perhaps, there _was_ some piece of him that was not good. That there was a hidden darkness inside of him, uncontrollable and deadly. 

Joseph Buquet, she concluded grimly, must have sowed the seeds of his own destruction, even unknowingly. For the creature she had seen and felt last night, though capable of great harm, seemed as meek and gentle as a lamb. Good dogs were known to attack when mistreated or threatened. Why should good werewolves be any different? She could pity Joseph Buquet, but it did not follow that she had to condemn Erik. Nor should he condemn himself.

"Christine?"

Hastily, she dried her eyes and looked up as he entered the room. The shadows made the mask look like it was a continuation of the flesh of his chin and neck. For a moment, as he stood in the doorway, she could pretend that they were two ordinary people in their ordinary home on an ordinary night.

But they were not; and Christine found that she did not want an _ordinary_ life. Not when there was someone so very extraordinary that she might share it with. 

"I'm alright," she smiled at him and hoped she did not look too wretched. There was no mirror in Erik's bathroom into which she might have seen herself. "You were sleeping; I didn't want to wake you."

Erik's lips parted as though he would speak, but he closed his mouth and eyed her nervously. Their golden glow was dim, even when they caught the light and she was sure they would be green again before the hour was through. She was starting to chart the course of his transformations, even if she could not understand them. 

"Do you...wish to sit down?" she asked him, tilting her head toward the empty chair. "You did not sleep so long as I did. And...you must be tired, I don't think you slept at all last night."

Erik's hand gripped the doorway tightly; his claws dug holes in the plaster. His dim gold gaze fixed itself not at her, but some spot over her shoulder and she saw him swallow hard before he asked her, "What did I do to you?"

" _To_ me!" Christine cried, aghast. Lingering weakness meant she could not leap to her feet and run to Erik's side, but she did lift her arms to beckon him closer. "You didn't do anything _to_ me! Rather, you...you _took care of me_ , Erik. Don't...don't you remember anything?"

Their eyes locked. With the most profound wretchedness, sorrow, and palpable fear Erik said to her, "No. I don't remember. _Any_ of it."

And finally Christine, _understood_ , just a little.

 _He doesn't remember. He doesn't know. What it - what_ he _is like. No wonder he's so terrified of himself._

She wanted to weep for him, as she had so many times, but it would do neither of them any good. It would likely only cement for Erik the notion of how horrible he was that the thought should make her cry. So, with tight lips and dry eyes, she smiled at him and beckoned again that he should sit down. 

"Well, that's alright," she lied. "I remember. So sit and I'll tell you all about it."


	21. Here Be Monsters

How could she look at him in such a way? With a gentle smile, imploring gesture, and soft, kind eyes? A small hopeful voice inside of Erik thought that perhaps it was as she said. Perhaps, despite what she might have seen and encountered the night before, she still loved him. That perhaps he was not...

But no. No, he _must_ be. A monster. Yes, otherwise...otherwise...

_"Erik! Erik, are you there?"_

A voice across the lake. Jean-Claude! Whatever would Jean-Claude want with him? He _never_ came below; he was too mindful of all Gerard's warnings and conscious of his own instinctive fear of Erik to get too near him, let alone in the cellars where no one would hear him if he screamed. Just as no one heard Joseph Buquet.

"Erik?" Christine cocked her head up at him, gesturing again to the chair. "Won't you sit and listen to me?"

"I..."

 _"Erik! For God's sake, come out, won't you? I_ have _to talk to you!"_

"There's someone here," he said, looking worriedly toward the lake as though he could see the man through the walls. "I've got to...forgive me, I'll return in a moment."

"Who's here?" Christine asked, sitting up on her haunches. "I'll come with you!"

"No, no, stay here, please," Erik insisted. There was a crocheted blanket thrown over the back of the armchair and he hastily wrapped it around her. She'd want a fire, he realized belatedly. He did not feel the chill as ordinary people did and doubtless she was suffering. "I must cross the lake. I'll be right back."

Christine caught his fingers in her hands. He was too mindful of his claws and the harm they might do to draw his hands hastily away and so let her give them a reassuring squeeze. He did not move and only drew in a very sharp breath when she pressed a kiss to his knuckles. "I'll be waiting."

A great flood of _wanting_ overcame him all at once. Erik desired nothing more than to take her up in his arms again, hold her close, feel her touch and hear her voice, but he could not. He must not. And Jean-Claude was waiting.

The man looked ghastly as Erik approached him. He wore no hat and the ring of grizzled hair surrounding his head was standing on end as though he'd had a great fright. His agitation seemed only to increase when he saw Erik looming over him, but he actually _approached_ him now rather than backing toward the doorway. That unusual action served only to increase Erik's alarm; something must be deeply, deeply wrong.

"Is it Gerard?" he asked, assuming that some calamity befalling his father was the only reason Jean-Claude would seek him out. "Is he alright?"

"He's been summoned," Jean-Claude said, following up this strange pronouncement with a high-pitched tittering giggle that was _so_ unlike him, Erik thought he might be ill. "They say the Minister of Culture himself is - but never mind, never mind! Where is our little friend? Is she alright? And not to worry about that doorway to the properties room, I've taken care of it."

 _Doorway?_ Erik thought blankly. _What about the doorway?_

Reassuring Jean-Claude's anxiety took priority, however and Erik assured him that Christine was alright. That he was looking after her.

"She's been ill," he said defensively, feeling it imperative to inform Jean-Claude that she was only in his company by necessity. He would never have dreamed of bringing her to his home otherwise - well. Yes, alright, he might have _dreamed_ it, but not ever acted upon it. "Once she's well, she'll - "

"But she's alright now?" Jean-Claude asked urgently. "You're seeing to her? She's being taken care of?"

"...yes, of course," Erik replied, feeling strangely off-kilter. As though he had been dropped into the midst of a play without having the benefit of rehearsal. Nor even a script. 

"Oh, thank God," Jean-Claude closed his eyes and moved his lips in a silent prayer to heaven. "The poor girl - I hoped as much. Poor thing. Poor little thing - don't send her back too quick, eh? I told them - I've got Sophie in on it too, not to worry! - that she was in hospital. That she was in a bad way, that we hoped she'd pull through, but it's no small matter, being poisoned."

 _Poisoned?_

The bottom dropped out of Erik's stomach and his head swam. Poisoned. _Poisoned?_ No. Impossible. Sheer madness! Who would do such a thing? What would they have to gain? Why sabotage a performer on the premiere of a new opera? Even La Carlotta could not be so stupid or short-sighted as all that. 

But she was. Jean-Claude explained all as Erik's throat got tighter, his breathing more bullish, and his fists clenched. Pierre was the great investigator who found her out. While all was in chaos following Christine becoming violently ill on stage, he thought it strange how La Carlotta emerged from the wings, dressed and made-up as Marguerite, down to the greasepaint and auburn wig. 

_That_ made him suspect something was amiss. This was not the first time a performer had become ill, but a substitution would be made hastily, during a break between acts. To see La Carlotta come out all done-up and polished gave him pause. Anyway, it was all for naught; Madame had become so distraught by the mess of the stage and her clothes and threw such a fit that the performance came to an abrupt end before the close of the second act. Furious patrons stormed the box office demanding refunds (hence Jean-Claude's state of agitation; he remained at the Opera fielding complaints until three in the morning.) The performers were told to take off their costumes and go home.

Five members of the orchestra had already tendered their resignation; the lead tenor was enraged, the ballet master furious. Many senior members of the company with status and some small celebrity called a meeting at the Bistro and determined to demand the resignation of Monsieur Choletti and the reinstatement of Monsieur Carriere. Otherwise they'd walk.

Pierre was angry, yes, but suspicious foremost. He did not away to the Bistro; instead he stayed behind at the Opera and talked to the wig girl. After only a few pointed questions (and a reassurance that he would not _tell_ Madame whatever she had to confess), she fretfully informed him that Madame Carlotta insisted she be ready to go on as Marguerite, 'just in case Mademoiselle Daae suffered an attack of nerves.' Which seemed strange to her because she had been informed that Madame herself was sick at home which was why Mademoiselle Daae was going on at all. 

But when the young lady tentatively asked Madame Carlotta why, if she was well and prepared to go on, that Mademoiselle Daae was already in costume, Carlotta snapped at her and told her to do as she said if she wanted to keep her job. She _did_ want to keep her job. So she did as she was told and did not ask any questions.

"Now, what Pierre never knew," Jean-Claude continued, speaking more now than Erik had ever known him to say in twenty years of acquaintance, "was that Monsieur and Madame were having a _hell_ of a row! It had all been settled between them, you see. At least, Monsieur Choletti _thought_ it had been settled. He wanted Mademoiselle Daae to perform to drum up some good publicity - which we've been sorely lacking all these months. A _Little Glass Slipper_ sort of story, you know? Only Madame didn't like it. She _drugged_ the poor girl - left the bottle of the stuff she used in her vanity, among her perfumes. Can you _imagine_?"

Imagine. No, not quite. Erik could not _imagine_ the lengths of ego and blind, mad ambition that might prompt someone to endanger the life and livelihood of an innocent girl. But well he could imagine the consequence for such a thing. He could _imagine_ a fitting comeuppance, prying La Carlotta's jaws open and forcing her to swallow down the vile concoction that she had used to drug Christine. Let her puke her guts out for hours. Better still, let her suffer all the ill-effects of the drug without comfort or aide in front of hundreds of people while they sneered in disgust or laughed at her. Let her know what it was to be shamed and reviled. 

Not once in his life had Erik felt so furious. It burned in his blood like fire. Oh, what he would do to her if he got his hands on her, his _claws_ into her -

But it was morning. The Opera was full of people. Gerard might be coming. The Minister of Culture might be coming. If he threw all care and caution to the wind and bolted up the stairs to enact the revenge upon Carlotta which she so deserved, he would be leaving Christine all alone in the dark. And that he could never do. He had to come back. He promised her.

Jean-Claude coughed politely and Erik snapped back to the present, away from thoughts of just, but impractical vengeance.

"Erm. Are you...didn't you know?" Jean-Claude asked, tentatively.

Quite without meaning to, Erik snarled at him, "No! Of course not! I was a dumb _animal_ , last night Jean-Claude, how in God's name was I to know what that devilish woman was up to?"

Following that outburst, Erik fully expected that the man would turn tail and run, fleeing upstairs to the relative safety of the sunlight and the Opera. But Jean-Claude merely blinked. Hitched his shoulders and replied, "Fair enough. I'm sorry, my boy, I would have put it differently. I thought you knew."

What a day of surprises this was turning out to be. 

"I did not," Erik replied, gentling his voice with an effort. Sighing gustily he said, "I don't know...anything that goes on around here anymore."

Jean-Claude's right hand twitched. For a wild moment, Erik thought he was going to reach out and pat him on the arm or something, but ingrained habit and good sense prevailed and Jean-Claude did not touch him. He let out a sigh of his own and chanced a half-smile up at Erik's masked face.

"Well, you knew enough to take the young miss somewhere safe and look after her," Jean-Claude observed. "That's more than's been done for her in a while, I fancy. Anyway, I'll come back when I've more news to share - especially if the Minister of Culture comes! Anyway, do you...ah, _need_ anything? For Mademoiselle Christine or...yourself?"

 _I need someone to tell me what the hell is going on_ , Erik thought miserably. _I need to know why you, who have always treated me like a monster have decided to take on the role of an indulgent uncle. I need to know what is to become of this place. To me. I need..._

But what he truly needed, he could not say. And Jean-Claude could not provide.

"We're - I - I don't need anything," Erik said shortly. "She's...she's on the mend. She'll return shortly."

"Not too soon!" Jean-Claude said. "She's meant to be in hospital, remember? Give it a day or two. If the young lady's condition is _quite serious_ , perhaps La Carlotta will not get off so slightly, eh? And what a blessing for all of us!"

He took his leave then. Assured Erik he would see him soon. And ascended back to the world above.

For a while Erik simply stood, staring at the place Jean-Claude had been, trying to make sense of their conversation. It occurred to him to pinch himself, to determine whether or not he might have dreamed the whole thing. Or had a very vivid nightmare. But that seemed highly unlikely; in his nightmares he was left alone. Not given to receiving more company down in the dark than he'd had in ten years of residing in the cellars. 

Since the arrival of the Cholettis, his life had been upended in so many ways, it made his head swim. First, they took away his creative output, his facsimile of work which gave his life some little purpose. Then they took away his last fleeting belief that there was some humanity in him when Joseph Buquet descended below-stairs. And finally they destroyed the reputation of the Opera House itself, replacing beauty with farcical spectacle. 

Yet in their blustering and blundering they brought Christine to him. Banished her to the costume department, left her near penniless, forced to live a squatter's existence in her place of employment. If his father had been kept on as manager she would have been given singing lessons, found a flat with her colleagues in the chorus and caught the eye of a smitten patron or two. She would have been comfortable and provided for and he would have been content to listen to her golden voice from afar. They would never have met. There would have been no need or opportunity. 

In nearly killing her, they'd somehow driven her below and into his arms, into his home. It wasn't right; Erik could feel the injustice of it niggling at him, like a prickle beneath his skin. Yet there she was. In his home, beyond the lake. And he was very late in getting back to her. 

When he finally roused himself enough to make the journey back to his home, he did not quite find Christine where he left her; she had curled up in his armchair, tucked up in the blanket, half-dozing. Erik got a fire going in the grate, imparting some light and warmth into the sitting room. When he glanced back at her, he found Christine was no longer sleeping, but looking at him with an expression made soft and dreamy in the firelight. 

"What did Jean-Claude want?" she asked, a flicker of doubt and uncertainty in her eyes; or perhaps it was only the fire playing tricks. "Did he...he told you what happened, didn't he? How badly I - "

"Shh," Erik shook his head, crouching by her side. "Don't...he told me what happened. He told me what was done to you, Christine I am _so_ sorry. I wish I could have - "

But she shook her head, looking very seriously into his eyes. They were so close the nose of the mask would have bumped into her own nose had he moved a muscle. As it was, he remained still as stone.

"You _did_ ," she anticipated him. "You _did_ help me. You have helped me. Over and over again, when no one else would, even when you weren't quite...you."

Christine stood up, keeping herself covered with the blanket as she nodded toward the chair.

"Sit down, please," she insisted. "Jean-Claude told you how it began. Let me tell you how it ended."

Unable and unwilling to think of a single reason why he should flee the scene, Erik sat down as he was bid - then started slightly when Christine unceremoniously deposited herself in his lap. 

"Mmm," she sighed contentedly, snuggling her head against his chest. "That's better. Now listen - Erik, you _are_ listening to me, aren't you?"

Erik swallowed and tilted his head down to look at her. She seemed not to feel threatened - no. No, more than that. She seemed to feel safe. She seemed to feel _happy_. Or at least content. With him. Near him. Touching him. As he said all those weeks ago, he did not understand. But perhaps now, once she'd spoken to him, once she explained, he would.

"Yes," he said, his voice a low whisper. "I'm listening."

He did listen. As she told him that quite a large wolf came upon her in her little corner of the properties room. That - though it was very big - it was not all threatening. That it took her downstairs, strong as a draft horse and gentle as a kitten. That it put her to bed. Even got her a blanket. And stayed beside her all night. Comforting her. Taking care of her. Never once did it harm her. Never once did she feel threatened. Perhaps it was not quite _him_. Perhaps he did not control the creature and would never remember what it got up to on those strange and terrible nights. 

"It...you... _he_ was not a monster," Christine concluded firmly. "Not last night and...Erik, I don't know what became of Joseph Buquet. No one will ever really know. But...you are _not_ a monster last night. I don't think you ever were. Erik?"

She brought her tiny, pale hand up to cup his chin gently; her fingertips stayed well away from the mask as she tilted his head down so he would look her in the eyes. "Erik, were you listening to me?"

Mutely, he nodded. He had been listening. He thought he understood, but understanding brought no clarity. Instead it threatened to open up a dark hole in the pit of his stomach. An abyss that threatened to seep into his mind, cloud his thoughts, and never let him ago. 

For ten years, Erik hid himself away, knowing with certainty that there as no life for him among people, in the world above. There was scarcely any justification for his continued existence below except for what he might contribute to the running of the Opera house. He stayed hidden. Stayed away. To protect the rest of humanity from the creature in their midst that might destroy them all, if given the chance. There was a nobility in that sacrifice he thought. A humanity in acknowledging how inhuman he was.

But Christine told him firmly no. That she, a defenseless young woman, ravaged by illness, had not only survived an encounter with the beast, but that the creature had aided her. Been gentle. Brought help and comfort. 

Erik was beginning to understand, but in doing so, was struck with a cold and dismal realization; if he was not, in fact, an irredeemable monster, then he was more lost than ever.


	22. Unmoored

Erik had gone, very, very still. He was still breathing. But that was the sum of it. 

Christine bit her lip and looked away from him, glancing from the fireplace to the walls of the windowless room, lined with books. Had she hurt him? She hadn't meant to. She only wanted to unburden him. She'd hoped - _wished_ , really - that the revelation of his other self's behavior toward her might make him happy. That he would feel some relief at long last, and not merely fear. But perhaps she had been pushing him again, without meaning to. It was so hard to know what to do with regards to Erik. And she still felt a little queasy and lightheaded.

Gingerly, she slipped away from him, letting the blanket he'd wrapped around her fall to her feet. It was a sign of Erik's continuing distress that he did not bend down at once to ensconce her in warmth again. He too was looking at the walls, but he did not seem to be seeing them. His green eyes looked so far away.

She might try to bring him back, at least. 

Christine reached out and took his right hand up in both of hers. He did not squeeze her hands, but a tension pulsed in the muscles of his long fingers. It was some sign of life beyond his breathing anyway. 

"Erik?" she asked softly, chafing his hand lightly between her palms, though it wasn't cold. It was warm, like the rest of him was warm. "Do you...don't you have anything to say?"

Slowly he turned his head toward her. There was a blankness in his expression that she had never seen before and it sent a jolt of fear through her.

 _I've hurt him_ , she realized without his needing to say a word. _Broken him, somehow. Oh, Erik._

"What do you want me to say?" he asked and now it was Christine's hands that twitched anxiously. This was a tone of voice she had never heard him use before. Not even when he was weeping and calling himself a murderer. It was a hollow tone that somehow held all the misery in the world, though his eyes were dry and a vein in his neck pulsed ominously. 

A harsh burst of laughter escaped his throat, brief and bitter.

"I suppose I ought to thank you," he said, looking away. He swallowed visibly - had he eaten or drunk anything all day? Erik had spent the morning tending to her needs, but had he seen to his own? 

"Do...do you want a glass of water?" she asked, wincing as she spoke. She'd upended his life (over and over again for months) and all she could do was offer him water? And from his own taps no less.

Prideful, perhaps, but Christine considered herself rather clever. At least where people were concerned. She thought she could gain the measure of someone fairly quickly. She thought she'd understood Erik...yes. That was the trouble. It was not that she thought she understood him, that might have worked for his benefit. It was that she thought she understood him better than he understood himself. That was where the virtue of insight soured and turned to a dreadful kind of arrogant assumption

Christine dropped Erik's hand and took half a step away from him. Even if he did not want any water, her throat felt dry. 

They'd both erred, she realized, as they remained in increasingly painful silence. She overreached in her understanding. He in his ambition for her; so certain he had been that she would make friends, that she would forget him, that she would triumph upon the stage. They had the best of intentions for one another - she was canny enough to recognize that - but even the best intentions could not change the fact that they bad both been hurt badly in the process of acting these intentions out. 

And now here they were. Two lost souls abandoned in the dark with nothing to offer one another but shared love. It was not nothing - certainly not! - but it felt like a slight and flimsy thing to Christine just then. Erik sought to lay the world at her feet. And she sought to take him along with her. How kind they had been to one another. Unfortunately, it was not enough.

Erik recovered himself a bit before she did. Ignoring the inquiry about the water, he bent down and picked up the blanket, handing it to her rather than placing it around her shoulders. Then he stood up.

It divided them better than anything else he might have done; she had to crane her neck back to look at his face and from that angle could not see his eyes. For his part, he could look right past her over her head. As though she wasn't even there.

But Erik was not cruel. He did not ignore her entirely. He took a few steps away, poked at the fire idly and said, "Jean Claude told the company you're in hospital."

It seemed a strange non-sequitur and so Christine responded only, "Oh."

"So..." Erik cleared his throat and put the fire poker back. He was oddly fidgety and Christine wasn't sure if it meant he was working through the utter upending he'd experienced of his sense of self or if he was locking it all away. Like a treasure in a chest, buried underground where it might not do anyone any good. 

Christine waited patiently for him to speak. She would not force him to converse with her about it anymore. She would play his game of pretending, the game he'd begun months ago when he was a well-dressed stranger trying not to frighten her. Now their positions were quite reversed; it was she trying not to scare him off and so far she'd done a rotten job of it. No more. She would wait and not attempt to bait him or draw him out.

"So," he repeated, turning toward her. "That being decidedly untrue, it is necessary to...complete the ruse. Which will require you to remain...here. At least a few days."

It was not surprising in the least that Erik would rather speak of her than himself. Take care of her needs and ignore his own. Now as ever, Christine found that intensely frustrating, but she steadily ignored the part of her nature that urged her to draw him out and insist that he tell her what he most ardently wished and confess all his secrets in one great outpouring.

It was not bashfulness that made him reticent. Nor even a low opinion of himself. For the first time in the whole of their acquaintance it was properly dawning on Christine just how little Erik knew of himself. It would take time for him to determine what it was he wanted. What he could allow himself to take.

Christine thought she understood, at least a little. When her father died, her world went with him. She'd tried to build it up, bit by bit in the months afterward, but how far had she gotten? Had she not continued singing because it was his dearest wish for her? Had she not been travelling to Paris because it was a city he had loved? And did she not jump at Philippe's offer of employment because years and years ago her father whispered wistfully what a wonderful thing it would be if someday she were to perform upon the stage. 

Yes, the journey to discovering one's self was long, difficult and contained many setbacks. It was a journey best taken alone, Christine supposed. And, reading between the lines, she imagined why Erik would choose now to tell her of Jean Claude's ruse.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, for...oh, everything. Her throat went tight and her eyes watered. "I...I am sorry. To impose on you."

"Impose?" The surprise in Erik's voice - the only real _emotion_ she'd felt from him since she told him the truth of the night before - made her look up. "Not at all, I thought - forgive me, I assumed...that you...after all that you just _said_ , I thought..."

He trailed off. It was hard to see in the flickering of the firelight, but she thought he blushed. 

She closed the distance between them. The heat from the fire suffused her and made her hands just as warm as his as she gingerly intertwined their fingers. "Tell me what you thought? Please?"

Erik looked down at their hands, touching, in the light and spoke nervously. "I thought it might please you to stay."

The relief that she meant to impart to Erik filled Christine right up, exiting her body in a sigh. 

"Of course I want to stay," she said, tilting her chin back to look him in the face. "Do _you_ want me to stay?"

"Forever," he replied and the blush deepened until he was red from the tips of his still-pointed ears down his throat. "That is, I - "

It was all the invitation Christine required. She let go of Erik's hands and positioned her arms around his waist, holding him, grateful that she'd not wrecked it all again with her constant prodding at him, her bold tongue, her -

But it seemed some of her boldness was catching, for Erik lifted her right off her feet and into his arms. Instinctively she wrapped her legs around his waist, not wanting them to dangle like some rag doll. A thrill very like joy suffused her and he pressed the nose of the mask in the join between her neck and shoulder, breathing her in.

She did the same, nuzzling her nose into the soft hair that curled behind his ear. Yes, she thought. That was what _home_ smelled like.

"I thought you were angry with me," she mumbled into his neck, relieved tears prickling her eyes. 

The cool leather of the mask - the only part of him that was not hot and alive - rubbed against her shoulder in a negative shake of his head. 

"Not at you," he murmured. "Never. I am...unmoored. But not angry."

 _You should be_ , she thought, arms tightening around Erik's neck. _If I were you, I would be furious._

But she was not him, her thoughts were not his thoughts, her feelings not his feelings. Although she was convinced of the injustice he'd suffered. Christine could not help herself - she blamed his father for deceiving him. There was no doubt in her mind, but that Monsieur Carriere had lied through his teeth to his son about his nature. If the wolf had been so sweet to her (practically a stranger!) it could hardly be less so to Erik's father.

Unless he was cruel to it. The thought made her hold Erik more tightly as if by squeezing herself as close to him as possible she could heal every past hurt, every terrible thing that had ever happened to him, every cruel word, ever time his father made him feel as though he was a monster. 

And the hurts were not just visited upon his heart and mind. As Christine drew her arms away from his neck (she was slightly afraid of strangling him), she felt raised marks upon his skin through his thin shirt. The weals of old wounds. 

Erik stiffened when he felt her hands ghosting over those marks. He pulled away from her and she sat up in his arms - lifted as though she weighed nothing at all. They were nose-to-nose and she could see his eyelashes, looking like threads of gold in the firelight. But nothing else of his face. 

"Were those from...from that night you were...when you were seven?" she ventured timidly. 

Mutely Erik shook his head. Christine hands rested lightly upon his shoulders and she felt a roll of tension shrug through them. 

"No," he said. "Those are...more recent. Very recent. The night of the Bistro. That is why...it...the creature... _I_...hurt myself. Sometimes. On those nights. I've never known why. I assumed a brutish nature would shed what blood it could, but you said..."

He trailed off as though he could not stand to admit aloud to himself that he was not a killer to the marrow.

Resting her forehead against the cool impassive leather of the mask, Christine's nose was squished against the hard structure of the mask's nose. Still, she gazed seriously into Erik's eyes and said, "If _you_ aren't angry now, perhaps it wasn't angry then. Perhaps it was only afraid. Did...did it happen often?"

Again Erik shook his head. Shifting his grip on her so that he only held her in one arm, he shook the loose sleeve of his shirt so that it clung to his forearm. Christine felt herself blanche at what she saw.

Scars like manacles, like he'd been chained up, looped around Erik's wrist, thick and painful-looking. She meant to say something sympathetic or reassuring, but all that came out of her mouth was a strangled gasp of horror. She never noticed. Not once had seen them - but of course, Erik never rolled up his shirtsleeves. He always kept his cuffs fastened, even when they were sewing together or he was doing some other labor in the opera house.

"I used to chain myself up," he said quietly, like a confession. "But I worried I would not be able to play if it continued. So I stopped."

 _Thank God you did_ , Christine thought, turning to look at Erik's face instead of his arm. Her stomach was still unsettled and the sight made her queasy. "But I don't understand. I thought...forgive me if I've been foolish, I had it my head that you were _invulnerable_. You're...certainly very strong."

That made Erik chuckle and sound a little more like his usual self. Gently, he set Christine back upon her feet and glanced back at the armchair. There was no sofa nor any other furniture aside from the shelves and tables in the room, but Christine was more than happy to share.

"Not invulnerable," Erik replied when she and her blanket were settled back atop his lap. The unease between them lingered a bit, but was ebbing now. Erik even draped an arm around her and Christine snuggled closer. She had no idea what time it was - early afternoon? Evening? All she wanted to do was rest against him for eternity. "Merely quite tough. I don't...I haven't been ill in twenty years. If I injure myself it heals quickly. But silver will leave a scar."

 _Silver chains_ , she thought. _It sounds like a fairy tale. But it isn't._

"How did you get those wounds on your back?" she asked gently. "Those weren't from chains."

"No," Erik sighed, closing his eyes, either chasing or banishing some thought or other that Christine could not see. "I don't remember what happened. There were some shattered bits of glass. Mirrors, I think. I don't know why there should have been mirrors. But Gerard was there. He helped me. Afterward."

Helped him. Christine found the fact of his father's being there when Erik was badly hurt to be more suspicious than anything else. But she bit her tongue and put it from her mind. She would not push. Not about that. Not right now.

"I can't imagine," Christine shook her head, leaning her head against Erik's shoulder and looking up at him with compassion. "What it must be like, to lose time like that. Like a somnambulist."

"A particularly destructive one," Erik muttered darkly, then threw his head back and sighed. "Or...I don't know. I really don't understand. It's not - _please_ believe me, I don't think you're lying. It's just...what you've said is very different to what I'd always been told. And what I...I thought I was a malevolent thing. A creature that couldn't...love."

It was so simple and so extraordinary a fear that Christine thought she could feel her heart stutter in her chest. How could he believe that? How could he _ever_ believe that he could not love? Erik had the greatest, most generous heart of anyone she had ever met. Without thanks or acknowledgement he looked after the theatre and its occupants. Expecting nothing but that she would forget him when fame and fortune came her way he selflessly offered help to a girl he did not know. And he hid himself away in the cellars on the order of a man that he trusted whole-heartedly in order to protect the world from the imagined threat of himself. 

There was no doubt that Erik could love and had loved. A sacrificing love. But there was so much more. 

"Erik," Christine reached up and tucked her hand around the strong curve of his jaw, keeping her fingers against his skin and not the mask. "You do love...me. Don't you?"

He'd said it once. That dreadful night when she feared she'd never see him again. But it was far from a romantic declaration, it was a cry full of pain. All his life, when Erik loved something, he took care of it in secret and expected nothing in return (indeed, did not believe himself worthy or capable of receiving anything in return). But this was different. It had to be different. No matter how painful the circumstances, they were together now. And he said he wanted her. Forever.

"Yes," he said and it was a declaration. Perhaps not romantic, exactly, but quiet and full of feeling. "Yes, I love you."

"And...well, I've said it enough, but...do you _believe_ that I love you?"

Erik was quiet a long while. This time it was Christine's turn to sit as still as stone and wait. Even if it hurt, she would rather that he did not lie to her.

"I..." He took such a deep breath she could feel the whole of his broad chest expand beneath her side. "I'm...beginning to."

Christine's much narrower chest rose and fell as she expelled her relief in one breath. _Beginning._ She rather liked the sound of that.

"Good," she said, smiling at him and the look in Erik's eyes, which had recently been so far-away and unreachable was warm and inviting, and so full of love that she thought, on one small matter, she might make free to _push_. Just a little. For both their sakes.

"Would you...would you kiss me?" she asked. Then, knowing that with Erik she might have to clarify. "On my mouth?"

" _Christine..._ "

That was all he said. He did not hem and haw and go on about his monstrousness or her goodness. He only said her name, softly, reverently, in his beautiful voice. Then he inclined her head. She rose to meet him, winding her arms around his neck, he pulled her closer, his left arm around her back. In the middle they kissed. His mouth was warm, his lips were soft; the edges of the mask were hard and cold, but Christine found that she did not mind too much. 

It was brief and chaste, but sweet nonetheless. A beginning. Christine could only hope that the ending was a long, long way off yet.


End file.
